Victims
by Isobel Morgan
Summary: "Don't get me wrong," Bad Hal said. "I've killed entire phonebooks of people." Here are some of them, from their perspective or his.
1. Rachel, 1950

I've lowered the rating because, well, if you watch the show, you know what to expect. There's violence, language and sexy bits in many of the chapters, so not for the easily offended but no more so than any of the episodes. Hope you like – please review!

* * *

**Rachel, 1950.**

Nick was late. Again.

He'd been acting so strangely these last few weeks; Rachel didn't know what to do anymore. She'd known for a while he was dealing with some... strange people. As a lawyer, spending his days with criminals, that was to be expected and, well, she didn't mind that. After the war, perspectives changed; nothing was black and white anymore. But recently... he would disappear for hours, sometimes days. Hushed phone conversations, peculiar visits after dark. Why wouldn't he trust her? She'd told him everything about herself, before he'd even proposed, that was how much she trusted him. Thought she'd known him.

Was it possible there was another woman?

If it was just work, then surely he could tell her? There wasn't much she'd judge him for. So maybe he thought he had to protect her, by keeping her out. That thought frustrated Rachel. She was no pure little lamb, no delicate flower that needed mollycoddling. She'd lived through the same Blitz as everyone else and Nick knew well enough her childhood had ended her innocence well before that.

Perhaps it was a caveat of whoever he was dealing with; no telling the little woman indoors. Again, that wouldn't be unusual. Certainly the men who'd called a few days before, the way they'd spoken to her had given the impression they thought she shouldn't worry her pretty little head about it. Rachel was annoyed with herself that she hadn't pushed it then, that she'd allowed Mr Yorke's handsome face and pretty manners to turn her into a simpering housewife, that she'd gone back inside and left Nick to it instead of standing her ground.

And Mr Yorke bothered her. Yes, he was charming, but then Rachel's father had been charming too, and that hadn't made the bruises heal any quicker.

She knew what people could hide behind a mask - indeed, one of the reasons she'd married Nick was because he genuinely didn't have one. Everything he was, was there. He was too open. Until recently.

And it was clear he was hiding something, something huge and important. His mask was developing, but not enough so that Rachel couldn't see it, not her who knew him better than anyone. Who could these people be, what could they want with Nick? Why would they want Nick? Unless of course, they saw the same thing in him that she had; potential. He was honest, but that honesty could be twisted easily enough, as could the ambition that had been stunted by his upbringing, the same thing that had built in him that desperate need for approval, to please and make proud. She'd worked so hard to bring out that ambition in him. Perhaps she should be glad it was paying off, but still she was uneasy, worrying that Nick was in over his head. She should confront him. Yes, she would. Not an accusation, but an assertion of her support, that she would be there for him no matter what he was up to, who he was dealing with.

Resolved to action, Rachel felt a little better. As long as he had her, Nick would be alright. She could keep him from straying any further than was necessary into the dark, just far enough that he could live up to his potential.

But still she couldn't settle, prowling the empty, dark house. She'd changed for bed, but she didn't want to go to sleep yet, not while Nick was still out god knows where.

The doorbell startled her and she allowed herself a moment to slow her pounding heart before she answered it.

Henry Yorke was waiting at the door, holding his hat in his hands and that smile was back, that unnerving smile. On another man, perhaps it would be called boyish, playful even but Mr Yorke carried too sinister an air for Rachel to think of it as anything other than dangerous.

"Mrs Cutler. Rachel."

He said her name as if he were tasting it, or as if by uttering it, he was laying claim to her.

"Mr Yorke. Nick isn't at home, I'm afraid."

Rachel found she was holding the door between herself and the men, half-hiding behind it, suddenly very frightened but not sure quite why. The two men who stood behind Mr Yorke she barely noticed, her attention held by the one who was clearly their superior. His smile broadened and this time it wasn't charming, not at all. It was... predatory, the mask slipping.

"I know. I need to leave a rather important message for your husband. And you'll do very nicely."

The man blinked and when he opened his eyes, they were pure black, the monster within him leaping to the forefront as the mask was discarded entirely and Rachel knew it was all over. This man was going to kill her, and she'd never know what it was he wanted with Nick.

She didn't try to run. She could tell there was no point; she'd never get away and now, neither would Nick. He too was lost, irretrievably.

He should have trusted her. Maybe then, she could have saved them both.

* * *

I'm planning more of these, trying to decide who to focus on. Some could get a bit... grim.

Suggestions welcome - Hal doesn't have to have killed them personally for them to qualify, just be responsible or somehow involved. I'm thinking about Lady Mary, but I'm not sure I want to write the version of her she was then (although Hal referring to her as a "shy, fragile creature" could have been a wrong impression all along).


	2. Sylvie, 1792

**Sylvie, 1792.**

The horse's hooves clattered on the cobbles as he drew up, dismounting and throwing the reins at the groom.

"Don't bother stabling him," Lord Harry snapped. "I shall be needing him again soon."

"Is everything alright, my lord?" the groom asked, nervous at the expression on his master's face. The man had ridden out barely fifteen minutes ago; surely only bad news would have recalled him?

"Oh, everything's fine. Wonderful. Better than ever."

There was a smile growing on Lord Harry's face, some kind of terrible joy that made the groom more than nervous. The moment his lord was gone, disappearing into the house, the man crossed himself, wondering if there was any truth in what he'd been told about his master's 'temper' and how they shouldn't displease him, not ever.

He heard his lord call out for all the servants to attend him, the front door slamming closed with a disturbing finality, and the groom was severely tempted to just hop up on the horse and ride away. But he needed this job, and without a character, he wouldn't get another, especially if he stole his master's prize stallion; men had been hanged for less. So he led the horse out of the courtyard, and waited.

Lord Harry strode across the polished floor, riding boots ringing through the entrance hall as he called for his servants.

"Come down here, all of you! I want you to seal this house; no-one gets in or out. Do it! Now!"

They scurried away to do his bidding, frightened by this sudden change in their master and this pleased Lord Harry. Their fear was an overture, whetting the appetite he no longer had to suppress.

"And bring me the keys when you're done!"

He glanced up at the new portrait hanging on the stairs, the one commissioned by his lover; or rather, the other man's lover. He, the man he was now, couldn't wait to tear out that bitch's throat. Who knew how much longer he'd had to wait his turn due to her influence? Keeping him sober, pretending he could control, deny his very nature. She deserved worse than death for that.

The man in the painting smiled, his eyes full of love for the woman; Lord Harry wanted to wipe that expression off the face that was his own but not. He could remember being that man, those feelings, but this version of himself had been there too, underneath, fighting as hard as he could to get to the top, to take over, to win.

And here he was.

The servants were gathering in the hall once more, huddling together in an anxious mass.

"Should I fetch Mistress?" one of the maids asked, her coarse accent grating on Lord Harry's nerves.

"No. Leave Lady Sylvie where she is, for now. Much as I would like to deal with her first-"

He closed his eyes, allowing the demon within to rise up fully, turning his eyes over black as he reopened them.

"She'll have to wait. There are so many of you to get through first."

He hissed, fangs extending and it was so _intoxicating_ to hear them begin to scream. He'd missed this. All those years of denial, guilt, so much wasted time. So much to catch up on.

As soon as they saw the monster their master had become, they scattered, trying to run, forgetting they had just locked themselves in with him. Their obedience was so worn-in they couldn't break it, even now; they didn't so much as try and smash the windows to escape.

The slowest were lucky; he caught them right away, killing them quickly, ripping out their throats and gulping down their blood like a glutton. The first blood he'd tasted in years and there was nothing like it, _nothing_. Sex didn't even come close, especially not with that milksop girl upstairs.

Lord Harry shed his riding coat and boots, stalking through the house barefoot, like a wolf ranging across the moors. Each person he caught, he killed and it wasn't just the taste of their blood he wanted now. He'd been freed from prison, and he was going to indulge every desire, everything he'd been denied and no-one was going to stop him. Some tried to fight; he vaguely remembered that some of the men had fought in some war or other in the past, but that hardly mattered. None of them would ever have come across someone – something – like him before and the added violence pleased him.

He could feel his strength returning the more blood he consumed, as if he were ending a long period of convalescence and that made it all the easier. Bones broke beneath his fists and then one of them pulled a knife, god knows from where, so Harry took it from him and used it to run the fellow through, pinning him against the wall and leaving him there to die slower. Not that it really mattered, but he wanted them to know who was in control here, that to resist was pointless.

Once he'd finished off the men – there weren't many, not in this house, although he hadn't forgotten the groom outside – he turned his attention to the women, most of whom were cowering in the kitchens. Perhaps they'd expected the menfolk to protect them, and without that hope, they barely resisted, just waiting their turn.

Climbing the stairs, Harry realised he'd lost count. How many servants were there? Lady Sylvie, with her ridiculous ideas of modesty and virtue, had limited their number, even undertaking the management of the household herself. That must have been all of the indoors staff – there might perhaps be a few gardeners and whatnot left outside, but they hardly mattered. He'd mop them up when he was done here.

He reached the corridor that led to Sylvie's bedroom; everything was utterly quiet. Had she tried to run? Hide? She knew what was happening; the other man had told her it would, though she'd tried her best to believe it wouldn't.

Before he could reach her, he was taken by surprise by the sudden appearance of yet another maid; one of the downstairs girls he'd managed to miss so far. He couldn't recall her name – some new drudge hired to scrub the kitchen floor was hardly something that concerned him – indeed, couldn't remember ever having laid eyes on her before, but perhaps that was because now she was standing in front of him, looking him straight in the face, bold as you like, instead of scurrying away the moment she saw him.

"I know what you are, demon," she said, and Harry was so astonished, he didn't immediately laugh in her face.

She pulled the crucifix out from behind her back, drawing a bottle of what presumably was Holy Water from her apron pocket.

"Leave this place!" she commanded, shoving the cross at him and Harry reeled back, covering his eyes and screeching in pain.

"No, not that! The agony! I can't-"

He broke off, laughter finally winning out.

"I can't keep that up."

He took his hands away, letting her see the eyes as pure black as his soul and she seemed to shrink, though she held her ground.

"That might work on other vampires, but not me. And certainly not when I can feel your faith waver like that."

Harry snatched the cross from her, crushing the wood into splinters and in a last-ditch attempt, she threw the Holy Water in his face.

The water splashed and of course all it did was wash away a little of the blood of his victims. Harry didn't even flinch and, with this last weapon in her arsenal proving useless, the maid finally turned and fled.

Tiring of this game now, Harry ran her down, pouncing and pinning her face-down on the polished floor. She struggled, kicking and clawing at him, trying to bite his hand, which amused him immensely. If she truly had encountered vampires before, she must know she couldn't hurt him, couldn't stop him? But the survival instinct was stronger in some than others, it seemed.

She was muttering something under her breath and for a moment he stopped, listening to her prayer, which was almost as amusing as her fighting back.

"I don't think he's listening," he whispered in her ear, smoothing back the hair that had strayed from under her maid's cap, exposing her neck to him.

She shrieked, flipping them both over in a sudden burst of desperate strength he wouldn't have thought she possessed and kicking out. Her foot caught him squarely in the groin and the shock was enough for him to loosen his grip and she wriggled away, crawling out of his reach and fleeing once more.

Enough. The brief entertainment this drab had awarded him evaporated and Harry longed to feel her veins surrender to him. He caught her quickly, throwing her down on her back and landing on top of her, his hands holding her wrists, his hips pressing against hers and for a moment he wondered if he should take his time with this one, ruining her entirely before he killed her.

She spat at him.

"You may kill me, demon," she hissed. "But God will punish your sins."

"I rather doubt that," Harry drawled, and in one quick, decisive move, he bit into her neck, ripping open the rich seam of blood that pulsed there, allowing it to pour down his throat. He didn't need to feed anymore, that hunger was almost sated, but the other desires... they had barely begun to awaken.

He held onto the girl until her struggles died away, and then got up, leaving her drained corpse to lie where it was. After all, there were no more servants to clean up the mess.

* * *

The door to the bedroom swung open – she hadn't even shut it, let alone locked it, knowing it would make no difference. She was sitting on the bed, looking out of the window, over the gardens, brushing her hair. She'd changed her dress and for a moment Lord Harry felt that familiar flash of irritation at female habits before he realised what she had done. It was the dress she'd been wearing when they first met.

"If you're trying to appeal to the man I was then by wearing that dress," he called out, lounging against the doorframe, picking bits of maidservant from his teeth.

"I'm afraid I must dash those hopes."

She didn't so much as look at him, continuing to brush her hair.

"What will you do with the house?" she asked.

Her voice was calm, as if they were merely discussing closing it for the Season.

"You mean, when I'm done killing everyone in it, will I burn it to the ground? Perhaps. I haven't decided yet."

Sylvie finally put down the brush and turned to face him. Her golden hair hung loose around her shoulders, illuminated by the sun flooding in through the window.

"What an angel you look."

Harry's tone was mocking, cruel but Sylvie didn't flinch. She'd known this day was coming, prepared for it. She rose to her feet with the dignity of a queen, the material of her skirts swirling around her.

"You remember who you were before, then?" she asked, forcing herself to meet the eyes of the blood-soaked monster in the doorway, looking so much like her lover but yet nothing like him, as if this were a cheap novel and she was confronting his evil twin.

"Unfortunately, yes. Every dreary detail."

"Then I shall speak to him. Even if he can't answer me now, one day he will return and he'll remember this."

"Oh god, what now?" Harry rolled his eyes.

"Are you going to pray for my soul? Because I don't believe I have one anymore."

Sylvie approached him slowly, hands clasped together at her side as if this were a ballroom and she was accepting his invitation to dance.

"You mustn't blame yourself, my love. This was inevitable, and you must know I don't blame you. Hold onto that, when you return. This wasn't your fault. It was stupid of me to think I could change you."

Once more, laughter won out.

"Agreed."

Harry struck her across the face, the back of his hand slamming into her jaw and knocking her to the ground.

"God, you're tedious. And predictable. Although I suppose I should be thankful you made this easy for me, didn't try to run away."

She looked up at him, not a trace of fear in her beautiful blue eyes.

"I wasn't trying to make this easier for you."

A trickle of blood escaped from the side of her mouth. She didn't wipe it away.

"Get up."

His voice was a whip-crack, as cold and inhuman as his eyes. They'd reverted to hazel but there wasn't a trace of her lover within them.

He took hold of her around the waist, pulling her close to him and, almost gently, he lifted the blood from her mouth with his thumb, licking it clean. This first taste of her blood was as stimulating as the heat of her body, pressed against him, the sound of her heartbeat filling his ears. Despite her outward calm, it was racing and that pleased him.

"I was prepared to spend many hours on you," he whispered in her ear, long fingers tucking loose strands of her golden hair behind it.

"But now I'm here the very thought of it bores me. _You_ bore me."

"I'm sorry if my death isn't amusing enough for you," she replied, her face strained with the tension of keeping her feelings in check. Harry chuckled, continuing to stroke her face with his fingertips.

"No matter."

Quick as lightning, his hands gripped her head and twisted, breaking her neck in one swift move and Sylvie dropped to the floor, extinguished like a snuffed candle.

Harry regarded the corpse at his feet. He didn't even want her blood, especially now her heartbeat was stilled. She might still be warm, but dead blood couldn't compare with that of the living. If nothing else, he could taste their terror while he fed and it annoyed him she hadn't been more afraid of him, as if she'd cheated him somehow.

The room was silent. The whole house was silent. He'd rooted out every last servant; no more hiding in cupboards or cellars. There was nothing for him here.

Stripping off his blood-sodden shirt, Harry strode across the room, ignoring the body of his former lover on the floor as he pulled clean clothing from the wardrobe.

The groom was gone by the time Lord Harry returned for his horse, presumably fled when the screams had started. No matter. The horse remained, quietly cropping grass on the lawn and it came over when he called. He could hunt the man down, if he cared to, along with any remaining outdoors servants; he couldn't have gotten far. It hadn't, after all, taken Harry that long to slaughter his household.

He swung himself up into the saddle, dropping the house keys down onto the lawn in a final careless dismissal of this life that was now over. What now? Where next? Europe, perhaps. He was tired of England and its mad king; the chaos raging in France, now there was potential for... amusement. A man like himself could do almost anything in such circumstances.

Urging the horse forward, Lord Harry rode away.

* * *

The year is an estimate – the only reference is "over two hundred years ago", and I rather like the idea of Evil Hal joining in the Reign of Terror (after all, we know he learnt French at some point, and I'm sure he wouldn't mind not being an aristocrat again for a while).

Hal also said he had no idea that he was about to 'revert' here, but I'm working on the assumption the other man may have.

The portrait of Hal is the one I've mentioned before, in "Haunts Old And New," Chapter 4. I envisioned it having him dressed something like Beau Brummel, although technically that style wasn't until a few years later.


	3. Felix, 1955

**Felix**

Felix Hart lay in the dark and waited for death.

He could feel it, like a physical presence in the cellar with him and he knew it was close. There was no way out; the last fight had nearly killed him, and if his imminent transformation didn't, the next fight would.

Felix had never been a fighter; he'd been a sickly child, never one much for the rough and tumble of the other children in the street, and then when the war came along, he'd been an ambulance driver. In the midst of a worldwide war that killed millions of people, Felix had never been responsible for the death of another human; he'd wanted to save lives, as many as he could. The first time he'd become the wolf, when he hadn't known what was happening... Felix knew he may well have hurt someone then, possibly infected another innocent. Since then, he'd kept indoors. No family to protect him, but that meant no-one close by he could hurt either, so maybe that was alright.

And then a smiling man had come up to him and brought him to this place, where he had killed and where he would die.

He hadn't been a wolf long, less than a year, hadn't yet learned that there were more monsters out there than the one that had attacked him, cursed him, changed him into something other than the man he'd tried so hard to become. Now he could smell them; vampires.

Their cruelty, the sheer ingenuity of the ways they thought up to torment people sickened Felix. Hadn't the war been enough? The slaughter, the death camps, cities being bombed and burning... ten years had been enough to start rebuilding, but not enough to start forgetting. And here these creatures were, revelling in suffering and pain, turning it into a _sport_.

They called them 'dogfights', called him a dog, nothing more than an animal. Kept him chained up down here – one of them had called it 'kennelling' and laughed. They all laughed at Felix, at his confusion and fear, at his unwillingness to fight, even when he was the wolf. But, locked in a cage, surrounded by a jeering crowd, he'd defended himself against the man with the knife and somehow, he'd won. If you could call it that. His wounds, left untreated, were festering; there was nothing he could do, stuck where he was, and the vampires didn't care what state he was in, as long as he could be shoved into a cage when he transformed.

The door rattled; he had a visitor.

"Mr Hart."

It was the one who'd brought him here. Felix thought he was probably the leader; certainly the others all deferred to him, were clearly intimidated by him, which wasn't surprising.

He terrified Felix. How he hadn't seen it when he first met the man, he'd never know, although the fact Mr Yorke could hide who he was so well was part of what made him so frightening.

"Felix, is it? Rather an unfortunate choice of name, given the circumstances."

Felix didn't move, lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. It was too dark to see properly anyway, and he didn't want to see the vampire's face.

"My mother chose it. She wanted me to be lucky. To have a better life than she had."

"I can sympathise. My mother did the same for me; naming me after the king."

"George?"

Felix didn't really care, but he'd spoken to no-one for days. Any conversation was better than none.

"Henry."

History had never been Felix's strong point, but he couldn't remember there being a Henry on the throne since the Tudors. His confusion must have been clear.

"Yes, you're right. I am... considerably older than I look."

Mr Yorke came closer, but still Felix wouldn't turn his head, wouldn't look.

"Whereas I'm sure I look older than I am. And I won't get any older than tomorrow, will I?"

"I doubt it. You see, I've just come from settling in your opponent. Strapping lad. Full of vim and vigour, with fire in his belly. It'll be a special fight, one way or another, because he's a wolf too. We don't get to see that very often."

Felix closed his eyes.

"It'll be quick then. For me, I mean."

"Oh come now, let's not be defeatist! We need to give the fellows a fight they feel is worth laying a bet on, or I might as well just kill you here and now."

"Why don't you? Because it'd be kinder? Or is it just because you're afraid of my blood burning you?"

"Afraid?"

Felix had never heard a voice so cold and it sent a chill through him. Death was indeed in the room with him.

"What makes you think I'd be afraid of anything?"

Felix didn't answer. He'd come to terms with his own mortality, this last month. Had had nothing else to think about and he was expecting it to come as a relief. That he'd find peace, when this was all over. He found himself feeling almost sorry for the other wolf, the man who would kill him, when the moon grew full. If he was as promising as Mr Yorke thought, then he'd survive longer. Fight more. And he'd probably get a visit like this one, too.

"Are you afraid?"

"Of dying?"

Felix opened his eyes.

"No. Not anymore."

"Of me."

The voice was quiet; no less cold but there was something else in it Felix couldn't place. Was too exhausted to bother trying.

"Of you?"

Felix struggled to sit, to face his tormentor.

"Of course I'm afraid of you! Who wouldn't be?"

"He isn't. The new wolf."

"Then he's a fool. You're a monster. How many men like me have you done this to? How many people have you killed?"

The vampire's hazel eyes were unreadable.

"His name is Leo. Your opponent."

Felix lay back down, resigned.

"I suppose I'll meet him tomorrow."

"Yes. You will."

As if suddenly tiring of the conversation, as if it hadn't given him what he wanted, Mr Yorke turned and left the cellar abruptly, the door slamming closed behind him.

Felix Hart lay in the dark and waited for death.

* * *

As I said, Hal doesn't have to have killed them personally so Felix counts.

In Hal's prequel, it seems the dogfights were usually setting werewolves on men, but I decided to go for Felix having also been a werewolf and that when they saw he wasn't going to be strong enough for more fights, they found Leo to replace him.


	4. Mary, 1763

I could have written a more straightforward version that this – they meet, he bites her, she dies – and that would probably fit better with canon. But this was more fun.

It turned out a bit different than I was planning, hence the shifts in tone and it got a bit... lemony. I toned it down, but there are definite, um, citrus bits.

**Mary, 1763**

Lady Mary was bored. _God_, she was bored. This house... how could something so big, so filled with things, have absolutely _nothing_ to interest her? And yes, that included her husband, even if he was currently absent. Such a disappointment, in every way. She knew she should have held out for a love match... surely there was _someone_ out there who was rich and handsome, someone who would make her heart beat faster, someone whose lovemaking wasn't quite so... swift and unsatisfying.

Instead she had married for money and security and now she was stuck with Sir William, and this house where _absolutely nothing_ ever happened. Of course, she didn't show her irritation outwardly – so many ladies were positively green with envy that she'd captured so eligible a bachelor and lived in such a large house, that her clothes were always of the latest fashions, that she could spend the Season wherever she pleased and that was a small comfort to Lady Mary. Rubbing it in the face of that _bitch_ Lady Elizabeth especially.

But that didn't change the fact that she was bored. The servants tried to amuse her, and she did her best to be dutiful. She entertained the dull neighbours, ensured that charitable acts were carried out across the estate, planned and threw parties, even tried to paint, knowing that William liked an artistic woman. She tried to be a good wife, but she couldn't help but feel there must be more to life than this.

A flurry of activity among the servants caught her attention as she prepared to leave the house for her daily constitutional.

"What is it?" she asked Flora, one of the least dull of her staff. The girl had a sense of humour, at least, which was more than could be said of her dresser. Mary was sure the woman stuck pins in her on purpose.

"The master's coming home!" the maid panted breathlessly, having run all the way up the stairs.

"John – I mean, the gardener's lad, he said he saw them driving up the road just now!"

"They?" Mary questioned, trying to speak and hold her breath at the same time so her dresser could lace her in properly.

"John said there was another gentleman with him in the carriage, one he'd never seen afore!"

"A visitor?"

Mary's interest was piqued.

"Well, don't just stand there, Flora! We must ensure the house is ready immediately. Go on, hurry!"

Mary regarded her reflection in the mirror.

"Bring me my jewels."

The dresser pulled a sour face, but did as she was bid. Mary ignored her. Should she change her dress? Was this look elegant enough to impress a guest? William would be travel-stained and tired; he would want her to show off his wealth and taste as much as the house and estate did. It would have to do. She selected her finest jewels, just to make sure, then went downstairs to ensure the house was immaculate.

The weather was fine as she stepped out onto the front step to receive them, making every effort to appear the gracious hostess.

The carriage approached in a cloud of dust; it had been so dry these last few weeks and Mary was grateful the lawns were still green. Though a little rain wouldn't go amiss – Flora had said the gardeners were convinced a storm was coming.

The staff lined up dutifully along the steps to the house to welcome the master and his anticipated guest. Mary let herself grow hopeful – please don't let this be another dreary parson who dominated dinner conversation by telling Mary incessantly that women were the root of all evil and that John Knox was the greatest genius the world had ever seen. Mary had been forced to shred her handkerchief under the table to prevent herself from emptying the soup tureen over his fat head.

The footman opened the door, assisting Sir William down the step and Mary glided forward to greet him.

"Dear William," she purred, playing to her audience.

"Welcome home."

They grasped hands, kissing cheeks in as intimate a gesture as either of them could bear.

"My sweet Mary. Radiant as ever. May I introduce a new friend?"

He turned to indicate the man stepping down from the carriage and Mary felt her breath catch in her throat.

_Oh..._

"This is Lord Harry Yorke, whose acquaintance I made in London. Lord Harry, may I present my wife, Lady Mary?"

_This_ was no dull parson. He was young, perhaps ten years younger than William, closer to Mary's own age and handsome, _so_ handsome. Fashionably dressed, clearly he was a man of means, but Mary wouldn't have cared if he was dressed in sackcloth and ashes. His eyes were... mesmerising and his smile would have charmed the birds from the trees. Mary wished she were a more talented poet that she could better describe this _vision_ before her.

"_Enchant__è_."

He bowed low before her and Mary wordlessly extended her hand for him to kiss, trying not to stare like some artless peasant girl.

"We are delighted to receive you, Lord Harry," Mary replied, somehow managing to keep the squeak from her voice, if not the blush from her cheeks. Thank heaven it was warm out...

"We have so few guests this way."

"_Quel dommage._ This is a beautiful estate."

His eyes held hers – they were a delightful shade of hazel, warm with amusement – and Mary felt her heart flutter within her.

"Very beautiful."

Sir William, seemingly oblivious to his wife's reaction to his new friend, clapped Lord Harry on the back.

"Come along inside, Harry. I have a very fine brandy in the cellar I've been meaning to open for some time. Will you take a glass?"

"Of course."

Sir William stamped up the steps, leaving Lord Harry to linger behind.

_He_ hadn't missed the effect he'd had on Lady Mary, how he had managed to turn her into a gauche schoolgirl with nothing more than good manners and a smile. One hand behind his back, the other over his heart, Lord Harry inclined his head to her again, and then followed her husband into the house.

* * *

Dinner was far less of an endurance for Mary than it would have been if Sir William's guest had been from his usual circle. As it was, instead of having to restrain herself from violence, she had to concentrate on remembering everything she'd ever been taught about female modesty and restrained behaviour. It was a good thing the girls she'd been tutoring had gone back to their respective families; she could imagine them giggling behind their hands at their teacher's inability to control her... baser instincts when faced with a real-life version of a hero from the romantic novels she knew she shouldn't read.

Sir William remained oblivious to his wife's behaviour, but that wasn't surprising. Mary knew he couldn't give a fig for female opinions, even those of his own wife, and would have written off anything odd she'd said or done as 'hysteria' or some such, had he noticed. Throughout dinner, Mary kept looking up to find Lord Harry regarding her with open amusement, that smile on his face and each time she flushed with embarrassment and dropped her gaze, his smile only grew wider.

Once the men had withdrawn for port and cigars, Mary could escape to her rooms and cool her rosy cheeks by the open window. This was _ridiculous_. She was a grown woman, a _married_ woman, no innocent virgin to tremble and blush at a handsome face. She could only imagine what she would have done had she first been introduced to Lord Harry before her marriage. What a fuss he must create at a ball; how the girls must flock around him, forgetting all their lessons on female modesty and proper behaviour, thrusting themselves forward like milkmaids at a village dance. Much as she hated to admit it, Mary would probably have been one of them.

But, no. She had made her bed and she must lie in it. Oh _God,_ what a metaphor to have chosen. Her marriage bed, think of that. Her vows. She had promised faithfulness to Sir William and she must keep that promise, or she would be ruined.

* * *

Lord Harry reclined in the leather chair, sipping at Sir William's expensive port, wondering how this little side trip would end. Usually, he would refuse any such offer to visit the estate of some petty aristocrat with an over-inflated idea of his own importance, but Lord Harry was feeling restless.

He could feel something tickling the back of his mind and he knew his time was growing short; soon he would revert to that tiresome bore, the one with a fucking _conscience_ who actually cared about humans and all their meaningless, insignificant lives. Lord Harry wanted to have some fun before that happened and country estates were usually the best place for that. Lots of servants, but no-one to stop him doing as he pleased and once he was finished, he could just move on and no-one would know what he had done, unless he wanted them to. And, if only to spite the man whose turn it was next, this time he wanted them to. Leave the next man with an even more fearsome reputation and more blood on his hands. Give that self-pitying fool something to feel real guilt about.

This estate had promise, that much was for sure. Plenty of pretty little maidservants, not to mention the lady of the house and, well, _she_ wouldn't put up much resistance, not from what he'd seen of her so far. Clearly her witless husband here had no idea how to satisfy a woman and it amused Harry to think of how easily he could seduce the man's wife before he decimated the household. What to do with the man himself, though? The bore was still droning on about crop yield or something just as mind-numbing.

"Which is why I'm still here this time of year," Sir William was saying. "Usually we'd find time for a tour in Europe, but our little problems have kept us here this year. Mary's girls were most disappointed."

"Mary's girls?"

Harry's ears pricked up.

"You have children?"

"Ah, no I mean her pupils. Mary has undertaken the 'finishing' of some of the girls in the area. Daughters of lesser dignitaries and the like. A hobby, you understand, until we do have children of our own."

"I see."

Harry was a little vexed to hear he'd missed the opportunity to 'educate' these girls in the ways of the world himself. But he would work with what he had been given.

"Do you and Lady Mary expect to be blessed anytime soon?" he asked, watching the other man carefully. Sir William's shoulders tensed, his grip on the glass tightening.

"God be willing," was all he said, which Harry took to mean that Mary probably wasn't. Or perhaps it was Sir William who was the problem. Many a man had taken a wife for duty rather than pleasure and it didn't look like Sir William got any pleasure in taking his wife. She certainly didn't, which would make her all the easier to seduce and ruin. The idea was growing in appeal; convince the wife to forget her dullard of a husband and once he'd taken his pleasure with her, he could indulge his other tastes with the rest of the house. She would be last; he'd enjoy making her watch.

* * *

He waited until it was dark and Sir William had retired – as Lord Harry had suspected, the happy couple slept apart. Lady Mary had bade him good night hours earlier, barely able to meet his eyes without blushing like a milkmaid who'd heard a crude story.

The last few servants pottered around, extinguishing fires and whatnot while Lord Harry made himself comfortable in his room. He stripped off his coat and waistcoat, stockings and shoes, that ridiculous wig, leaving him in just his breeches and shirt – the fashions of this century were no less cumbersome and awkward than the last one. But that was the price you paid for being part of the aristocracy. The clothing of the peasants had changed little since he was human.

Almost undressed – certainly not fit for company – Harry left his room, silent on bare feet and made his way to Lady Mary's room. The house was quiet, still and he nearly made it uninterrupted, only to be accosted by a stern, matronly woman in a voluminous nightgown, clutching a candle.

"I knew you had wicked intentions toward my lady," the woman hissed. "I've seen your type before, lord or no lord."

Harry grabbed her, pinning her to the wall, one hand over her mouth. The candle fell to the ground, thankfully extinguishing with a hiss before it set the carpet on fire.

"My intentions toward your lady?" he whispered.

"Well, I was planning on fucking her until her eyes rolled back in her head and then I thought I might drink her blood. Was that what you had in mind?"

He let his eyes blink over black, pressing harder over her mouth to suppress her terrified squeal, letting her fear serve as an... aperitif.

She tried to struggle, but Harry hadn't the patience and snapped her neck with one brutal twist, bundling her body into the nearest cupboard before it had time to fall.

One down, many to go.

When he pushed open the door to Lady Mary's bedchamber, he'd expected her to be asleep, spread out in bed for him like an invitation. Instead, she was stood at the window, bathed in moonlight as she gazed out over the terrace, lost in thought.

Like her maid, she too wore a long white nightgown, only hers was finer, showing off her bare arms and ankles and if the light were better, Harry fancied he'd be able to see right through it.

At the creak of her door, she turned with a start, eyes widening in horror as she saw who her visitor was and how he was dressed.

"Lord Harry!" she gasped, glancing around the room in a fluster. "This is most... you should not be here!"

Finally, she saw her shawl, snatching it up and wrapping it around herself as if it would protect her.

Harry closed the door behind him, firmly, leaning against it to block her escape. Mary didn't know where to look; his state of undress was clearly shocking to her. Probably her husband came to bed in the dark, when he bothered to visit her at all.

"No, I shouldn't. But how could I stay away?"

He moved closer, his bare feet making no sound on the wooden floor. She shrank away, against the window.

"With a creature as exquisite as you in the house, am I expected to sleep alone?"

"My husband-"

"Your husband is a fool and a dullard. You deserve far better than him."

Mary finally met his eyes, determined.

"He is many things, sir, but he is my husband and I am his wife. Merely allowing you to be here is a betrayal of the vows I took."

Harry smiled. It was more fun when they tried to deny him. Many a virtuous lady had, and it hadn't done them any good.

"If you have betrayed him already, then why not continue? You are far too precious a flower to be locked away with a man who doesn't appreciate your loveliness."

He was directly in front of her now, the two of them framed in the window. He reached out and stroked the back of his hand down her cheek and Mary shivered, the shawl falling away. The material of her nightgown was thin enough he could see her nipples swell in response to his touch, how easily he had aroused her. This would be no challenge at all.

"I shouldn't... we shouldn't..."

"No, we shouldn't. But isn't it tedious, always doing what you _should_ and not what you want?"

Harry spoke with the ease of the practised seducer, the deflowerer of maidens, the ruiner of many. But part of this skill lay in making the woman think she was special, the only one he wanted. He leaned forward to kiss her, to claim her.

And was intensely surprised when Mary threw her arms around his neck and kissed him first, hard.

Pressing up against him, Mary abandoned any pretence of modesty, ignoring that she had a husband and giving in to every base desire she had. Never mind her training as a lady – tonight she would not be a lady but a woman. As it should always have been.

Harry had been anticipating she would merely submit to him, unable to deny her attraction to him. He had not expected her to go along quite so... wholeheartedly. Her kisses were like those of any bawdy wench and for a moment, Harry had no idea what to do. Should he continue? If she was this willing, was it still a seduction?

Mary stepped back, pushing her nightgown from her shoulders so it slithered to the ground, standing naked before him in the moonlight.

"Take me!" she declared. "Take me as a woman should be taken!"

Laughter spilled out of Harry before he could stop it.

Mary paused and Harry decided it made no difference if she was reluctant or willing. The end result was the same; might as well enjoy himself either way.

"What a revelation you are," he remarked, but Mary threw herself at him before he could say any more, planting eager kisses on him.

He picked her up, carrying her over to the bed and laying her down, stripping off his shirt and breeches until he was as naked as her. She reached for him, pulling him down beside her, hoping for more kisses but he grabbed her hands, pinning her down and rolling on top of her. Her face was a picture of shock and delight, her heart racing and it took all his self control not to bite her immediately. This was one of those times when delayed gratification would be better.

"Love me," she demanded, her eyes shining with desire.

"As my lady wishes."

He pushed into her hard, no preliminaries, but she was more than ready and her cry of instant pleasure was so loud he had to release one of her hands so he could put his own over her mouth, stifling her ecstatic exclamations. He didn't want them to be disturbed, not yet.

She writhed beneath him, pushing up her hips to meet him, her free hand snaking around his neck and Harry again felt the urge to laugh. Who would have thought this little fieldmouse would be such a whore? Maybe he was wrong about her and her husband, or perhaps her husband had simply never bothered to find out who he had married.

No matter. Harry let the anticipation of future satisfaction – slaughtering everyone in this house, for one thing – add to his own physical pleasure and before long Lady Mary was screaming her climax into his hand, scarcely able to believe what she was experiencing.

Lord Harry, by comparison, barely made a sound, although he gripped her tighter as they finished; she would have bruises.

Almost immediately, he pulled away from her, getting up off the bed and gathering his shed clothing from the floor.

Mary lay in her bed, too sated to move.

"You don't have to leave right away. No-one will be here 'til morning. We won't be discovered."

Lord Harry smiled in the moonlight and Mary felt a flit of misgiving in her belly.

"Where would the fun be in that?" he asked her, pulling on his breeches and her misgiving turning to genuine fear.

"Lord Harry-"

"Lady Mary. I must congratulate you on your... dedication to your role as hostess, but I shall be on my way now."

Shirt in hand, he crossed over to the door and exited, leaving a shocked and frightened Mary behind. What had she done?

* * *

Lord Harry padded down the corridor, pondering his next play. Was there time for a quick maidservant or two before the trouble started? But alas, no. Coming down the stairs from his own bedchamber, disturbed by the noise and hastily dressed in a dressing gown of silk, was Sir William.

One glance at a dishevelled Harry, clad only in breeches, emerging from the bedroom of his wife in the middle of the night, was all Sir William needed.

"Lord Harry, I... am at a loss for words."

"I've been fucking your wife."

Harry stared up at the other man, enjoying the moment, the shock on his face.

"Will that suffice, or should I elaborate?"

"I... you are my guest, sir and I am appalled that you would... such behaviour! Ravishing a lady..."

"Ravishing? You believe that she was unwilling?"

Harry didn't bother to keep his voice down; there was no need, not now.

"Let me tell you, sir. I've never known a bitch so willing, not in any tavern or bawdy house and believe me, I have known more than a few."

Sir William blustered, gaping at the man he had invited in as if he were some kind of changeling.

"I insist... you must leave immediately... a man with no honour."

That moment, however, was when Lady Mary came forward. Her nightgown was back in place, the shawl wrapped firmly around her, her long loose dark hair tangling around her shoulders, but her face gave her away.

"Is this true? My sweet Mary, have you betrayed me?"

"Dear William-" she began but Sir William gave a cry of horror as he realised how easily he had been cuckolded.

"My Mary... no! Sir, you leave me no alternative!"

"No alternative to what?"

Harry had been watching the drama develop with intense enjoyment. This was what he revelled in; creating chaos and watching it unfold.

"You have abused my wife's honour and I will not stand for it. Sir, I demand satisfaction!"

"A duel?"

That caught Harry's attention.

"If you must," Sir William sounded rather reluctant. "At first light, we shall settle this like gentlemen."

"I rather doubt that. But if you insist, then I accept. First light. Until then, good night."

He turned and walked away without another word, leaving an astonished Sir William and a horrified Mary to their own devices.

* * *

No-one slept.

Sir William immediately retired to his study, locking the door and refusing to admit anyone.

Mary, unable to locate her dresser, roused Flora to help her prepare. Perhaps she should be thrilled that two men were going to fight over her, that her husband was risking his life to defend her honour like a fairytale prince, but Mary knew she did not deserve that, and that William was thinking of his own honour as much as hers.

What had she _done_? Her head turned by the first charming rogue to cross her path, she had betrayed her marriage vows, behaved like a cheap slut and now there was every chance her seducer would kill William. She knew her husband would not back down – dull and a poor husband to her in many ways, he was an honourable man, and it was blindingly clear now that Lord Harry cared not a whit for honour.

As if putting on armour for battle, she dressed in her finest. The most expensive, impractical dress, her pearls, as she would for an extravagant party, and Mary realised she had no idea what would happen to her, whatever the outcome of the duel. If William won, what would he do with her? Would he send her away? Where could she go? Perhaps...

"Flora, will you pack my trunk?" she asked, staring into the fire with unfocused eyes.

"My lady?" the girl questioned, pausing in dressing Mary's hair.

"My things. I don't suppose I will be staying here long, no matter what happens in the morning."

The girl gave a gasping sob.

"Oh, lady! Sir William won't cast you out! He's a good man!"

"Yes, he is," Mary murmured, distracted. "But I am not a good wife. And I must return those books to Mistress Jane. She will be most distressed if I do not."

Flora burst into tears, pulling Mary out of her reverie.

"Don't cry, Flora. You've been a true friend to me, and whatever happens, you won't suffer for my foolishness. I'll make sure of it."

* * *

Lord Harry considered sleep, but decided against it, instead helping himself to more of Sir William's excellent brandy and the servant girl who had come to build a fire in his room. None of this household had yet guessed at his true nature; she didn't even have time to scream as he grabbed her from behind, opening her throat and drinking her dry. He wanted to fortify himself for his coming exertions; he didn't imagine that Sir William would put up too much of a fight, but there was no point in chancing it. And then there was the rest of the household to get through, though it was a reduced staff, some having been sent off in anticipation of Sir William and Lady Mary being absent on their aborted Grand Tour.

In a fit of whimsy, he put the body of the servant girl in his unused bed, and then settled down in a chair by the fire to wait for the dawn.

* * *

The grass was still wet with dew when the party assembled on the front lawn, the first rays of sunrise stretching over the estate. Despite the hour, everyone was fully dressed, and Lady Mary wasn't the only one in her finest. Sir William also wore his most expensive suit of clothing, though he did not cut quite such a dash as Lord Harry, who made the whole situation even more shocking by turning up bare-headed; no wig, no hat, as if he was going out of his way to deliberately insult the whole party. Which, of course, he was.

His demeanour was bored, as if he'd been called away from something enjoyable to attend to some tedious business.

"Shall we, then?"

Sir William was pale, sick looking but determined nonetheless.

"You have insulted me, sir and my wife. I invited you into my house and you abused my hospitality in the most base manner."

"Yes, yes, I fucked your wife, you want to defend your honour, I know."

Lord Harry rolled his eyes, gesturing in the air with his sword.

"As to your insistence on using swords over pistols... I approve. A blade involves far more skill."

That smile appeared once more, breaking through the jaded facade, the smile that said Lord Harry was going to have fun with this and everyone was right to be afraid of him.

"If I'm going to fight, I prefer it to be up-close."

"Now, gentlemen," interjected the clergyman, none too pleased to be summoned from his bed for this archaic ritual.

"Be civil. If this cannot be settled with words, then allow me to pray for your guidance."

"Must you?" Harry snapped in irritation. Every pair of eyes in attendance turned his way with disapproval.

"Very well," he relented. "Continue."

He waited with barely concealed impatience while the man intoned his prayer, calling on God to protect these 'straying members of his flock' and to have mercy on their souls.

"So you're comfortable with us killing each other?" Harry called out, his tone mocking.

"Not even going to try and talk us out of it, or reduce it to First Blood? Not what I expected from a man of God."

The clergyman tried to ignore him, finishing his prayer.

"If you cannot be dissuaded, then I will continue to pray for you both," he concluded, drawing back. He indicated to Mary that she and her servants should do the same, clearing the 'arena.'

The two men faced each other, raising their swords before the face, the other arm tucked behind their back as tradition decreed. Harry grinned, balanced on the balls of his feet like a nimble cat, waiting for Sir William to make the first move, wanting to force his hand.

Sir William, his face almost grey now, hesitated, then slashed forward, aiming for Harry's left side. Harry blocked it easily, twisting his wrist so the blades turned over, pushing them back toward Sir William, forcing him to take a step back in order to disengage.

Harry flicked his blade toward Sir William a few times, not yet attacking, making the other man leap back, swinging wildly in his own defence and Harry kept on grinning. His blade flashed out, slicing a thin red line down the other man's cheek.

"First Blood, Sir William."

The bloodlust was rising, not just to feed, but to kill, to destroy. To take something and smash it to pieces, just because he could. Because he wanted to.

Sir William raised a hand to the cut, looking at the blood on his fingers. Mary gasped in shock, clutching Flora's arm.

Grim in his determination, Sir William raised his sword once more and attacked in earnest.

Harry blocked, parried, still not yet attacking, holding back, waiting for the right moment.

"Damn you," Sir William panted, tiring fast. "You don't fight like a gentleman."

"Don't I? Then of course, I haven't always been one."

Sir William paused, regarding this laughing devil before him, facing what was probably his death with as much dignity as he could raise.

"You are not one now. And I curse my judgement that I ever brought you to my home."

Harry glanced over at Mary, pale and shaking but forcing herself to watch.

"Poor judgement would appear to be your family motto."

Sir William roared, charging forward and the fight became real, not gentlemen playing at chivalry and etiquette but two men trying hard to kill one another. Sir William was not a soldier, but he had received all the classical training of a young gentleman, had fought before and he made a valiant attempt.

Harry, however, had fought in many a bloody war, beginning when he was human and continuing for almost two hundred and fifty years, barring those annoying periods when he became _that_ man again.

At first, he let Sir William think he stood a chance. Then he began to take him apart.

The first serious blow was to the man's upper leg, cutting in deeply, tearing a howl of pain from Sir William. The smell of freshly spilled blood filled the air and Harry inhaled deeply, allowing it to intoxicate him.

The next slash cut across the man's stomach, ripping open the waistcoat and turning the white shirt beneath red, then a fierce blow to the shoulder made Sir William drop his sword. Harry kicked him viciously in the knee, knocking him down and stepping behind him to grab him by the hair, stopping him falling completely. He held the sword to the other man's throat.

"It appears I have won, Sir William."

Sir William was wheezing, struggling for breath and Harry could tell he was losing a lot of blood. He wouldn't last long.

"Damn you..." he muttered. "Damn you to Hell."

"Oh, I think that's already been done. A _very_ long time ago."

Propping his victim up with a knee pressed between the shoulder blades, Harry released his grip on the man's hair, running his finger along the blade of his sword and tasting the blood.

A horrified gasp ran around the crowd.

"Wha- what are you? You're not _human_."

Sir William meant it as an insult; they never really meant it to be true.

"How right you are."

With one swift, decisive move, Harry slashed open the other man's throat with his sword, cutting so deep it exposed bone, the blood fountaining out. He held him upright a little longer, forcing the crowd to watch their master bleed out before releasing the corpse, letting it drop face first into the gore-soaked grass.

Lord Harry regarded his audience closely. Frozen in place with terror, the sheer disbelief of what they had witnessed, they stared back at him as if he were a demon risen from Hell.

"Well," he remarked. "Whatever are we going to do now?"

Silence greeted his words.

Then Mary's other maid fainted, collapsing to the ground, and to Lord Harry's mirth, the clergyman turned and fled.

"So much for faith," Harry commented, more to himself, and he threw the sword at fleeing man, hard.

It was a cumbersome thing, more for ceremony than battle – although it had proven worthy in this duel – and it didn't fly true, but nonetheless, it embedded itself in the clergyman's back and he dropped like a hunted deer.

The staff, pushed past breaking point, began to scream and run.

Harry retrieved his sword, casually decapitating the clergyman almost as an afterthought before turning back to the panicking humans. Most of them had taken off, running back to the house, seeking protection.

Mary had not. She stood proud, waiting to see what he would do now. Her loyal maid Flora stayed by her side, holding her mistress's arm as Harry strolled back over to them.

Harry bowed low before them, as if this was her parlour and he wasn't splashed in her husband's blood.

"Lady Mary. Allow me to escort you back to the house."

"What do you want?" she asked. Her voice shook, but she didn't run, didn't faint.

"I haven't decided."

He offered her his arm, but Mary shunned it, forcing herself to turn and walk, Flora holding her up. Harry shrugged and joined them.

* * *

The house was in utter chaos. Those who had remained indoors, or who had not been woken by the events of the previous night were roused by the survivors from the duel's audience tumbling into the house, incoherent with terror.

Fearing that they were under attack, they tried to arm themselves, but that only pleased Lord Harry further.

His triumphant arrival back at the house, accompanying Lady Mary, confused them, more so when he shoved the two women inside, rattling his sword against the door.

"Come on then! Fight me, if you're willing!"

Some tried. Failed. Harry was enjoying himself now and there was no need to hide his true self anymore either. The sword made it easier, but after the first few, he abandoned it.

Some he drank from, but only a little, enjoying their horror, tasting their fear, until there were only two left.

Throughout the carnage, Lady Mary had stood in the entrance hall, Flora at her side. Both women were shaking with dread, but neither tried to run. They'd seen what happened when that was tried.

Licking blood from his fingers, Harry came back to her.

"So. I won the duel. Does that mean I've won you too?"

"You don't want me."

Mary tried to stop her voice quaking, but with little success.

"I've already had you."

Lord Harry's voice was cold, cold as the grave.

"There's only one thing I want from you now."

Flora stepped between the two of them.

"Leave my mistress alone. Ain't you done enough?"

"Little girl, if you had any idea of all the things I've done in my life, you'd never stop screaming."

Her eyes were wide and frightened, but she held firm.

"Spare her. Please."

Harry stared at her.

"You'll have to ask me better than that."

Flora sank to her knees, clutching at the material of her dress.

"Please, my lord. _Please_."

"Nowhere near good enough."

Slowly, hesitantly, she reached out a hand in supplication toward him, as if offering herself in the place of her mistress and Mary could no longer stay quiet.

"Enough! Flora, get up. There's no point in begging; his mind is made up. Isn't it?"

Those eyes of his... how could she have thought them warm and charming? They were death and pain and Mary heartily wished she'd never looked into them.

"Not always. Alright, Flora. You can go."

Both women gaped at him in shock and it pleased Lord Harry that he could still surprise them, after all he had done.

He shrugged.

"If there are no survivors, how would anyone know what happened here?"

Flora thought of Alice, the maid who had fainted outside and presumably was still there, unharmed. She could save her too, if this man was true in his intention to let her go. But then she wouldn't be able to save Lady Mary. She looked at her mistress, who seemed oddly calm.

"Flora, go. You have been a loyal friend and I would not see you hurt."

"Mistress!"

Tears sprang up in her eyes and she grasped her mistress' hands.

"Better hurry, Flora," Harry reminded her. "I may yet change my mind."

Flora embraced Mary quickly, then took to her heels, running out the front door and not looking back.

Lord Harry and Lady Mary regarded each other, the last two left in a house that was now eerily quiet.

Harry offered Mary his arm.

"Walk with me."

Revolted, Mary took a step back, but he was not asking. Taking hold of her, as if she was a prisoner he escorted, he propelled her forward, stepping over corpses and spilled blood as if they were nothing.

They walked to the back of the house, to the dining room that looked out over the estate grounds. In the far distance, dark clouds were beginning to gather; the promised storm. Inside the house, the storm had already broken.

They stood at the window, his hand on the small of her back, keeping her in place.

"What do you see?" he asked.

"What do I see?" Mary turned her head to look at him.

"I see the estate of my dead husband. The man you just murdered. One of them, anyway."

"Ah, not murdered. I won the duel, and the price for losing is death. Not the same thing."

Mary was too numbed by the events of the morning to argue that point.

"So what do you see, Lord Harry?"

"I see possibilities. A whole world, open and waiting. I've travelled a long way in my life, but there are still miles to go. And I know I may have to wait some time before I can continue that journey; no doubt _he'll_ stop me."

"Who will?"

"The other man."

Harry's tone had softened, his expression vague as he gazed out over the estate.

"So it's important I make the most of the time I have left, you see. This little... excursion may be the last of its type for a while."

Mary had no idea what he was talking about. Was no longer concerned.

He turned to look at her, his hand sliding around her waist and pulling her closer.

"I saved you for last because I knew you would be the best."

She twisted her head away, unwilling to look at him, but he grasped her face in his other hand, forcing her to.

"I thank you for your hospitality, Lady Mary."

Her face was blank, gone past caring and he knew he'd broken her. Only one thing left to do now. He released her head, letting her look away out of the window as he bared his fangs and bit into her throat.

She didn't make a sound as he drank, merely sagging in his arms as her life drained away and he sank to his knees, the voluminous material of her dress fanning out as he lowered her down. When he was done, he let her fall; there was only a little blood spilled and if he closed her eyes, she would appear to be sleeping. Unlike the rest of the house, who had not been so lucky.

Whistling, Lord Harry climbed the stairs to his room, retrieving his things before he moved on. He didn't know how much time he had left, but he intended to make the most of every minute. If he hurried, he might even catch up with Flora. She had spirit; that was promising. It was all about possibilities...

* * *

There will be a next part for this, dealing with how Hal came to visit Mary's ghost (although I don't really believe he kept it up _every year_ when he was evil).

I also don't know much about this time period, so some details are probably wrong, (the duel, especially, I pretty much just made up based on what I've seen in period dramas).

I got a bit confused as to the chronology, as they keep switching from 200 and 250 years in Mary's episode, so I just picked a year.

I usually forget disclaimers so, I don't know, anything you recognise isn't mine and anything you don't, probably is, especially any mistakes.


	5. Mary, 1765

**Mary, 1765.**

It was getting dark when Hal made it to the house.

No lights could be seen in the windows; there was no sign of life at all.

It had taken him days to get there, on foot this time, and his boots were starting to wear thin. His clothes had seen better days, and he hadn't eaten in... how long? Now he was over the worst of the bloodlust, he found he needed to eat more frequently, to keep him from thinking about the other kind of feeding.

But he also needed to do this. What he'd been doing. Criss-crossing the country, re-visiting the scenes of his crimes, facing up to what he had done, when he was the other man. It was the only way to deal with the guilt.

He didn't know what he was expecting to find here.

He hadn't found much to help him at any of the other places he'd been, but this journey gave him some kind of a sense of purpose, something to focus on, to keep his mind off blood. And, as it was, it was actually keeping him away from people; most of these sites were deserted. His transgressions had been so horrible, no-one wanted to live anywhere near where they had taken place.

Except... was that a light in the window? A single candle burning?

Yes. There was a face too, he just caught a glimpse - they'd heard his approach and looked out, but vanished before he could see them properly. Should he go in? He'd been invited in before. And he'd come all this way...

The doors were locked, but one of the windows wasn't and he climbed in, feeling like a thief on top of everything else.

The house had been scrubbed clean, leaving no sign of the massacre that had taken place, but the scars remained, even if only Hal could see them.

Slowly, he walked through, forcing himself to relive it. He'd rampaged through here like a fox in a henhouse, killing for pleasure and he felt bile rise up in his mouth as the memories flashed before him. Someday, he would be able to control it, he had to. And by facing up to all the things he'd done, maybe he could prevent it from happening again. These memories would hold... _him_ back.

Lost in thought, Hal didn't hear her approach at first, until he saw the reflection of the candle in the window. He whirled around, horror-struck.

"Lady... Lady Mary?"

"You!"

For a moment, neither moved, staring at each other in sheer disbelief. Then she hurled the candle at him and fled back upstairs.

Hal stamped out the flame before it could catch and ran after her.

"Lady Mary, please! Wait... I'm not-"

She ran into her old bedroom, locking the door behind her and Hal stood at the threshold, not knowing what to do.

"I'm not him! Not anymore. Please, just hear me out. I'm... sorry."

Hysterical laughter erupted from behind the door, turning into gasping sobs of overwhelming distress and terror.

"I know, that means nothing. And if there was something, anything I could do, I would. That's why I'm here."

Her sobs grew quieter, muffled as if she had pressed her hands over her mouth and he remembered doing that while they coupled in her bed, as he ruined her life, before he'd taken it, along with that of her husband and their servants.

"I know you'll never forgive me, and I'm not asking you to. But please... you don't need to be afraid of me anymore. I'm not here to hurt you."

Silence.

Hal sank to his knees, hands flat against the door. He'd known he would encounter many ghosts here, but he hadn't expected any of them to be literal.

He stayed where he was, head resting against the door as if in prayer. What could he do? Was there anything he could say?

* * *

Eventually, the door unlocked. Hal got to his feet as Mary opened it, standing defiantly before him, though she was trembling in fear.

Hal held out his hands before him, palm up as if he could open his heart to her, show her who he was. His face showed very clearly the turmoil he felt and Mary hesitated.

"I read once that if you shove a wooden stake through the heart of a vampire, he dies," she said.

"Does that work?"

"Yes."

Silence. The vampire and his victim stared at each other.

"Do you want to stake me?"

"Do I _want_ to? You _killed_ me!"

"I know. I... I've killed a lot of people, but I'm sorry for it, truly I am."

"_Sorry?"_

Lady Mary was getting angry now, her anguish pushing through her fear.

"You _murdered_ my husband, _butchered_ my servants and _drank my blood_! How does 'sorry' come into it?"

Hal dropped his hands down, struggling to find the words.

"You must understand... when I did those things, I wasn't as I am now. You see I... change. It goes in cycles and I'm not the same man I was then. He didn't care about you, but I do."

Her eyes were hard, but he could still see the fear lurking behind that brittle mask.

"You care about me? You do, do you?"

"I didn't know you would be here."

Hal swallowed, uncomfortable in the extreme but forcing himself to continue.

"I had no idea you had remained as a ghost."

Mary turned and walked away from the door. Hal saw her bedroom was much the same as it was when she was alive, if barer.

"Is there anyone else here?"

"No."

Hal remained in the doorway, not wanting to intrude any further into her sanctuary.

"The house... no-one inherited? It hasn't been sold?"

"Sir William had no heirs. The house has been shut up until the lawyers can trace any relatives. It sounded complicated."

Mary fingered the empty jewellery box on her dressing table, absently.

"You've been here alone all this time?"

"Not always. But you're the first to be able to see me."

She laughed, a humourless, unbalanced laugh.

"Do you know what that feels like? That your friends and family can't see you, but the man who murdered you can?"

Hal closed his eyes. The guilt was overwhelming but he forced himself to endure. This wasn't just penance. He needed this, to keep him from relapsing, from feeding.

"You do seem different."

He opened his eyes again to see Mary put down her jewellery box, looking him over.

"But then you're a good liar. That much I learnt about you."

"Do you... do you know what it is that's keeping you here? I understand that a door is supposed to appear, to lead you to an afterlife."

"I haven't seen a door. Nothing like that. As to why I remain... perhaps it was the manner of my death. Have any of your other victims become ghosts?"

"I don't know. It's possible. But-"

"But if that were true, William would be here too. And the rest of them."

Mary's expression turned wistful.

"At least you spared Flora."

Her words hit Hal like a physical blow.

"No. No, I didn't."

"You killed her too? I thought-"

"Worse. I recruited her."

Mary stared at him.

"What does that mean?"

"It means I made her like me. A vampire."

Mary gasped in horror, her knees giving way beneath her and Hal rushed forward to catch her before she fell. He put her in the chair by the window, taking a step back to give her room.

He could almost see the thoughts whirling in her mind as she took this in.

"Where is she now?"

"I don't know. She didn't take to her new state very well and we – didn't part on good terms. She may well be dead by now."

There was a long, awkward pause.

"Why are you here? What do you want from me?"

"As I said, I didn't know you were here. Do you want me to go?"

Mary's face registered a flurry of different thoughts, emotions, replies.

"I've been here alone for almost two years. The only person in all that time who could see me is you. If you leave..."

"Perhaps I should come back in the morning."

Mary didn't reply, gripping the arms of the chair tightly, staring intently into nothing.

Hal backed away from her, leaving the room and closing the door behind him.

This was not part of the plan.

With no idea what else to do, he went back to the room he'd stayed in before, hoping to sleep. But then he saw the bed, and remembered placing the corpse of the servant girl between the sheets, as if playing a joke. The bed had been stripped bare, the mattress showed no sign of blood but Hal could smell it. The whole house reeked of it, but now it wasn't fresh, now the only occupants were himself and a ghost, it was... manageable.

He took up a folded coverlet from the trunk at the foot of the bed, wrapping it around himself and, settling into the chair, he tried to sleep.

* * *

Hal woke with a start the next morning to find Mary standing over him, watching him.

He sat up, carefully.

"No stake?"

She didn't reply.

"I half expected you to finish me in my sleep. You would have been more than justified."

"You're really not him."

Mary was looking at him curiously.

"I thought about it – a lot. And he wouldn't have any need to come back. You couldn't know I was here, so you didn't come here to torment me further."

Hal got up, taking her hand and pressing it between his own.

"Lady Mary, I would rather die than hurt you further. It is to my eternal guilt and shame that I ever caused you pain and suffering. I beg your forgiveness, though I know I do not deserve it and I do not expect you to give it."

He sank to one knee, bowing his head.

After a moment, her other hand came to rest on his head, hesitantly.

They remained like that for a long moment, then Mary withdrew her hands and walked away.

* * *

Hours later, he found her walking in the garden. Without care, they had withered and died or grown wild, the carefully laid out formal parterres reverting to their natural shapes.

Hal tried not to think about that as a metaphor.

"Do you intend to stay here?" he asked her, maintaining a respectful distance.

"Where else could I go?" she asked, her tone fearful.

"I'm tied here, the place where I died. No-one outside can see or hear me. What would happen to me outside?"

"But you're alone here. Let me help you resolve your unfinished business, move on-"

"What if I don't want to move on?"

Her words were strained.

"What waits for me on the other side?"

"I honestly don't know. It's different for everyone."

"Perhaps this is my punishment. For betraying William."

"No, no," Hal rushed to reassure her. "You did nothing wrong. It was all my doing. I – seduced you. I forced you-"

Mary looked tired.

"No, Lord Harry. You didn't 'force' me."

"You don't need to call me that. My title – it isn't something I'm currently using. If it even truly applies."

Her brow furrowed in confusion.

"I've been alive for more than two hundred and fifty years, Lady Mary. I have been many men since then, and one of them was granted a title but... I'm not him."

A spark of curiosity ignited within her.

"You are truly that old?"

Hal nodded.

"That must be very strange. And lonely."

"Lonely?"

That was something he hadn't expected from her; sympathy.

"Sometimes. But you mustn't waste your kindness on me, Lady Mary. I don't deserve it."

"No? If my punishment is to remain within these grounds, alone, unable to escape every reminder of my sins, then yours isn't much different."

She reached out, cupping his face with her hands.

"You wear the features of the man who killed me. You have his memories, and you cannot escape them but you are not him."

Hal was startled by her insight, how quickly she had accepted this and how forgiving she must be to even listen to him at all.

"Lady Mary- "

"Shh."

She put a finger to his lips.

"Walk with me."

She continued her walk through the gardens, following the same paths she had when she was alive and, at a loss for what else to do, Hal fell into step beside her.

"This house will not be empty forever," she remarked. "Soon there will be new tenants. A family, I hope. I'd like that."

Hal felt the guilt stab into him again, but he remained quiet, letting Mary speak.

"It will be good to see this house come to life again. It has distressed me to see it fall into such disrepair."

She took his arm and Hal realised what she was doing. He was someone she could finally interact with, someone who had known her before her death. With him, she could perhaps relive some of the things she could otherwise no longer do; in this case, act as hostess entertaining a visitor.

That was something he could do for her.

"It is still a beautiful estate, Lady Mary. And under your watchful eye, I am certain it will remain so."

"And I hope you will continue to visit, Lord Harry. I shall look forward to the next time."

"The next time?"

"Well, yes. You don't intend to leave me here alone, do you?"

Hal stopped, wondering if she was serious.

"And it sounds like you may be in need of a, let us say, a safe haven. If you are to remain the man you are now and not to-"

"Revert? Yes. Yes, you may be right. It is... difficult to keep him at bay. If I don't feed-"

Mary blanched and Hal winced at his poor choice of words

"My apologies, Lady Mary. I mean, if I abstain, then the monster within me may perhaps be controlled."

"Then we will help each other. You will be my connection with the outside world, and I will be your last victim."

Hal looked closely into her eyes. She was completely sincere.

"Lady Mary. I accept."

* * *

Okay, so Hal doesn't last long before reverting in my timeline – killing Sylvie in 1792 – but Bad Hal said more than once that the cycles aren't always the same. (e.g. He told Crumb: "You might get ten, twenty or even fifty years.")

Plus I still don't believe he kept up visiting Mary _every year. _

I had intended to stick to characters within the show, but the next chapter will deal with what happened to Flora – having made Hal turn her, I wanted to explore that, instead of just people he killed.

I usually forget disclaimers so, I don't know, anything you recognise isn't mine and anything you don't, probably is, especially any mistakes.


	6. Flora, 1763

**Flora, 1763.**

Harry leaned back against a tree and waited for her to wake up.

He didn't know why it took some longer than others; so far, it had been a few hours and he half suspected she was remaining dead on purpose. Patience was not one of his strengths, and he wanted to be getting on, not hanging around the orchards of a country estate. Bored, he plucked an early apple from the tree and bit into it, but he wasn't hungry. He rarely ate human food, unless in company, so he threw the unwanted fruit at the body lying on the ground in front of him. No response.

"Oh come on!" he said aloud. "Now you're just malingering."

Still nothing, so he wandered away to check on the... luggage he'd brought with him.

A ragged gasp made him turn.

Flora's body arched on the ground, her feet kicking and her fingers rending the grass beneath her as she struggled for the breath she no longer needed.

"About time."

Harry went back, standing over her so his feet were level with her hips, looking down at his new protégé with interest.

"Be calm, little girl."

"What- what have you _done_ to me?"

Flora writhed, eyes screwed shut against the daylight that inexplicably hurt her, pain shooting through every inch of her.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"I can't breathe!"

"Then don't. You don't need it, not anymore."

Flora stopped kicking, panting. Slowly, she opened her eyes and Harry saw they were black as pitch.

"Why does everything hurt?"

"Why? Because I killed you."

Flora lay still as this sank in, her memory supplying the assurance that this was true.

"And then I gave you a gift."

"I'm – I'm like you? A monster?"

Harry rolled his eyes.

"Don't be so melodramatic. Yes, you're 'like me' but the word is vampire."

Flora screamed, curling her hands into fists and ramming them against her eyes, as if she could block out reality.

"No! Why didn't you just kill me like the others?"

"Because I saw potential in you. Possibilities. It's been a while since I've recruited anyone; you should feel honoured."

"Honoured?" Flora spat.

Her eyes opened once more and he was surprised to see they had already reverted to their original green, adapting to her new state rather quickly. He took a step back, looking her over more carefully and Flora wriggled away from him, pulling herself up into a sitting position, panting.

"_Honoured_? You rip out my soul and expect me to be _grateful_?"

"Who said anything about your soul? And would you prefer it if I'd just killed you?" Harry asked, half-angry, half-amused.

"You'd rather be dead?"

"Yes!"

They stared at each other.

"What I've given you – I meant what I said when I called it a gift. You're part of something far greater now, not just some little human. You'll never grow old, never die of anything as mundane as disease or hunger. Your life will have meaning in a way you could never have imagined."

"But you – I – everything _hurts_!"

"That will pass. Your body is changing; it'll take a little time to get used to."

He got up, offering her his hand to her. Flora's eyes were wide with horror and Harry wondered if he should just leave her be until she'd gotten through this tedious hangover from her human life. They were all the same – even he himself had taken a while to adjust and his recruiter had been none too kind.

But then Flora extended a trembling hand and he pulled her to her feet. She was shaking all over.

"You need to feed. That will help with the pain."

Her fist caught him square on the jaw, landing a stronger blow than he would have thought her capable of.

"I'll do no such thing!"

Harry looked at her afresh, rubbing the part of his face where she'd hit him.

"Well, aren't you full of surprises. A little fierce for a lady's maid, aren't you?"

Flora stared back at him, wild with fury.

"I had five older brothers. By the time I entered service, there weren't a boy in the village could beat me in a fight."

"Wonderful."

This time Harry was anticipating her attack and sidestepped, catching her fist and crushing it within his own, pulling down so she fell against him, her back against his chest, his other arm pinning her to him. She fought like a wildcat, screaming and cursing him but she was weakened by her transformation, whereas he had been doing this a very long time.

"Be quiet. I have little tolerance for this kind of self-pity."

"And what of everyone else? All my friends you killed? Ain't I allowed to pity them?"

"That would be a waste of time and effort. You are no longer human; you shouldn't concern yourself with them."

Flora screeched, struggling harder so Harry swung her around, slamming her up against the tree, restraining her.

"No! I won't – I'll kill myself first."

"Don't be ridiculous. Out of everyone in that house, I chose you. You don't throw something like that back in the face of your redeemer."

"_Redeemer_?"

Harry pressed himself up against her, enjoying her rage.

"Your knight in shining armour. I rescued you from your commonplace little life of servitude and I'm giving you the world."

Flora stopped struggling, her fury turning to an exhausted anguish.

"You _destroyed_ my world. Lady Mary – you killed her, didn't you?"

"Of course."

"I cared for my mistress. She was kind and-"

"She was a foolish slut."

Harry let go of her, patience at an end

"And her husband a petty little blockhead I enjoyed killing. Why are we still discussing this?"

"Cos I don't want to be like this!"

Flora folded over, clutching her belly as an intense cramp seized her.

Harry waited, watching her struggle to reconcile her new nature with the last life she was so desperate to hold onto.

"I can make the pain stop."

Flora shook her head, shuddering all over.

"Come on now."

Harry grabbed her arm, pulling her up and dragging her over to the other side of the orchard, where he had left his luggage.

Flora shrieked as she recognised Alice, the other housemaid she had escaped with, tied to a tree with a gag in her mouth. Her cry of shock turned to a moan as she scented the woman's blood, heard her frightened heartbeat and Flora fell down, overwhelmed.

Alice, too terrified to struggle, watched in horror as Flora's eyes scorched black, fangs descending, her face a picture of hunger and longing.

Flora fought, shutting her eyes, digging her fingers into the earth beneath her as if she could hold onto it, hold onto the person she had been.

"Stop this nonsense."

Harry grabbed her by the back of her dress collar, pulling her closer to Alice.

"You need to feed."

"No. No! Please, I can't-"

"Do it!" Harry's tone left no room for argument, yet still Flora resisted so he turned Alice's head with his other hand, exposing her neck. His nails raked across her pale flesh, drawing blood and Flora lost control. She threw herself forward, licking up the blood, moaning with a desperate hunger before sinking her fangs into her friend's throat, opening the vein and starting to drink.

Harry stepped back, looking into Alice's horrified eyes as Flora drank her dry, watching the life fade away. That was something he never tired of; no two people ever truly looked the same in their last moments.

As Alice's eyes turned empty, Flora began to sob. Clutching at her friend, she buried her face in Alice's shoulder, as if she could escape what she had just done.

"Oh God, still?"

In a moment, Harry was behind her, his hand in her hair, pulling her back.

"Stop whining. Embrace it. You feel her blood, inside you? The taste, the sensation of drinking the life from her body. There's nothing else like it in the world."

Flora reached back over her head to grab hold of his wrist but she didn't fight him. Her eyes were closed, her chest hitching with uneven breaths as her body tried to work out what it needed.

Harry leaned in close, his lips brushing her ear.

"And you liked it, didn't you?"

Flora sighed, a sound of pure satisfaction as the intoxicating effect of the blood took hold of her and Harry knew he had won.

He turned his grip on her hair into a caress, and her fingers moved up his arm, reaching for him.

In a moment, she had turned to him and they were kissing, Harry tasting Alice's blood on her mouth.

Blood-drunk, Flora was a different woman, passionate and responsive although she still fought him, unwilling to submit to him. Falling back onto the grass, Flora rolled them over, straddling Harry with her thighs, tearing at his shirt as they continues to kiss, furiously.

His hands pushed up her skirts, shoving aside layers of petticoats until he reached skin, sitting up so Flora could strip him of his shirt, unbuttoning his breeches then twisting his hips beneath her, flipping her onto her back. She wrapped her legs around him, her arms gripping his shoulders as he pushed inside her. Flora's sudden cry of pain alerted Harry to the virgin state he had just relieved her of.

"And still you surprise me," he remarked and Flora silenced him with another kiss, biting his lip. Her fangs had retracted but she still drew blood and he pulled away.

"Definitely fierce. I was right about you, wasn't I?"

"Shut up," she demanded and Harry smiled.

Kissing her again, they moved together, the dead women tied to the tree forgotten as they coupled aggressively in the sun-dappled orchard.

* * *

Later, when they had worn each other out, Flora grew quiet. The exhilarating effect of Alice's blood had worn off, and the guilt returned. As Harry returned from retrieving the horse he had stolen from the estate, she had taken down Alice's body and was wiping away the dried blood from the other woman's face and neck.

Harry tied the horse's bridle to another tree, his face expressing annoyance.

"This again. She's not worth your pity. None of them are."

"She was my friend. You made me kill her."

"Yes, I did. Just as I killed all the rest of your friends and no doubt will kill many, many more people."

Harry sounded bored.

"There is no point in discussing this further. We're vampires. We kill people. It's what we do."

"We don't have to," she threw back at him. "What happens if I don't feed? How long before I starve?"

"Well, you won't starve. You can't die from it, but you'll want to. It'll burn inside you, consume you. You won't be able to think about anything else. And then you'll admit that you don't just need it. You want it. It's who you are."

"But I won't die. Can we die?"

"Oh yes. But it'll take a lot more than it would when you were human."

"The sun hurts me," she whimpered, drawing back into the shade of the tree.

"It will. Eventually, you'll get over that. But in the mean time, get used to the night."

He tossed a travelling cloak at her.

"Now get up. I want to get moving."

But Flora stayed where she was. Harry went over to grab her, but as he pulled her to her feet, her hand flashed out and she swung the crudely sharpened tree branch towards his chest. Harry's reflexes were sharper and he caught her first, twisting her arm until there was a sickening crack, and she dropped the stake. Flora fell to her knees, clutching her broken wrist, face contorting in agony.

"You'll heal," he told her, cold as ice.

"Try that again and I'll break something else."

She looked up at him, her eyes burning with hatred.

"Next time I'll just use it on myself. It would be better to take you with me but-"

He slapped her, cutting her off.

"Stop being such a fool and get on the horse."

He threw the cloak around her shoulders, shielding her from the still bright sunlight and lifted her up, mounting the horse behind her and urging it away through the orchard.

* * *

One Month Later.

Lord Harry stepped down from the carriage, greeting the man waiting for him with as much warmth as there could be between two vampires.

"Edgar. Thank you for meeting me."

"Hello, Harry. Been busy, have we?"

"It was an enjoyable side trip, yes. Did I miss much?"

"Not really. London is London. Your messenger said you had something for me."

"Yes."

Harry indicated the carriage.

"A problem to solve, and a gift."

Wyndham looked in through the door to where Flora was sitting sullen in the dark, her hands bound in front of her and her mouth gagged.

"This? Well, you always did have an eye for pretty girls, Harry. Where d'you pick her up?"

"An estate in South Wales. Dreary little place, all in all, no more than a night's diversion, but I thought I'd bring back a souvenir."

Wyndham looked her over closely. Flora stared back fiercely.

"You don't recruit much. Why her?"

"I like a challenge. As do you."

"Sometimes. She's been giving you trouble?"

"She tried to stake me a few times. You might want to watch out for that."

"And why is it you can't keep an eye on your own recruit?"

"I have – other things to attend to. Pressing matters that cannot be avoided."

Harry kept his tone light, but there was a note of tension underneath his words and Wyndham knew him too well to miss it, picking up on the euphemism.

"Really. Well, I hope they won't keep you away too long this time."

"I hope not."

Harry could feel the other version of himself inside as if he was pushing against his skin, trying to force his way out. It wouldn't be long now, days probably and he wanted to hand Flora over before that happened. If the other man woke up to find Flora standing over him with a stake, he'd probably let her do it. Hell, he'd probably want her to.

"Come on, girl. Out with you."

Glowering, Flora did as she was told, stumbling on bruised and bandaged feet, awkward with her hands tied. Wyndham took her arm as she climbed out, looking her up and down.

"Did you need to keep her all trussed up like this the whole journey?"

"She still misses her humanity. It can get a little tiresome after a while, having her drone on. You'd think she was the first to ever go through it."

"They all do it. She'll get over it."

He untied the gag.

"What's your name, girl?"

"Flora."

Wyndham stared at her, his ancient eyes cold and her long-ingrained training kicked in.

"Sir."

She bobbed a tiny curtsey, but unlike when she'd been in service, she didn't try to hide her resentment.

"Well, Flora. You're a lucky girl."

Flora pressed her lips together so tightly they almost disappeared, which raised a pitiless smile from Wyndham.

"How much did Lord Harry tell you about me?"

"He said-" She glanced at Harry. "That you were important. One of the Old Ones."

"Yes. There's more to it than that, obviously, but that will do for a start. I'll see that you're educated, once you've settled in."

Flora looked between the two men, frightened beneath her hostility.

"Why do you want me? Why not just kill me, or let me go?"

"Harry?"

Wyndham gave his colleague a curious look. Harry gave the question genuine consideration.

"Once she's over her humanity, I think she'll be... interesting. I'm not sure exactly how that will turn out, but it's worth persevering."

"Alright. But you owe me," Wyndham reminded him.

"I have business of my own, you know. You can't drop everything of yours on me every time you have a... previous engagement."

"Of course. When I return to you, you'll be repaid in full, however you wish. But as I said, she's a gift as well, to use as you see fit."

Flora spat at him.

"I'm not a slave! You can't just give me to someone like a parcel."

Wyndham hit her, the back of his hand across her cheek and she staggered back against the carriage.

"Speak when you're spoken to."

"You'll like her more after she's fed," Harry told him. "She'll try to resist, but she won't be able to help herself and... well, she's far more receptive then."

Wyndham took hold of her chin in his hand, staring directly into her eyes as if he could read her mind. She tried to squirm back, but he held firm.

"Though you'll want to lock her up when that wears off," Harry continued. "She can be extraordinarily irritating when the remorse starts up again."

"She'll learn to behave. And if she doesn't... I heard that Mr Snow and the others are coming back this way sometime soon and you know how he likes his pets."

Harry smirked.

"You'd better behave, little flower. You think Wyndham and I are bad? Mr Snow is the vampire equivalent of those stories your mother told you when you were a little girl. 'Be good, or the monster will come and get you'."

Flora stared at them as if they were insane while both men smiled, enjoying her confusion, her distress.

"But as for now, I must say adieu. Time to be moving on."

Harry leaned over and kissed her bruised cheek, as if saying farewell to a sister.

"When do you depart?" he asked Wyndham.

"The ship sails in the morning. I have business out East so send me a message by the usual channels when your – pressing matters have been dealt with. I'm sure Flora here will be glad to see you again."

"I'll do that."

The men shook hands, then Harry got back in the carriage, thumping on the roof to tell the driver to depart.

Flora remained where she was, her hands still tied, staring at Wyndham.

"Well," he said. "What shall we do now?"

* * *

This kind of got away from me a bit. I intended to just write short pieces for characters from the show, but then this came along and just kept on going – the next chapter will continue with what happened to Flora as a newbie vampire.

There isn't much to Wyndham within the show, so I thought I'd borrow him here; someone to make Bad Hal look... not quite so bad.


	7. Flora, 1793

**Flora, 1793.**

It was a grand house, and Lord Harry was glad to reach it. His journey across Europe had seemed interminable, crossing borders that had moved since the last time he was this far out, into countries that hadn't existed then.

Humans never stopped slaughtering each other over lines on a map, did they? If they kept it up, there wouldn't be any left for the vampires. Or take what he had just left behind in France. It had been diverting at first; the country had executed their king, leaving chaos to reign instead and there had been _so_ much blood...

But after a while, it had become too political for Harry's liking and it was nice to begin using his title again without the risk of people wanting to guillotine his head off. Though there was that time he'd been caught feeding and the soldier had tried to decapitate him with a sword... The sheer extent of the slaughter had made him reckless and now it was time for a change, time to catch up with the others.

He'd missed the visit of the Old Ones to England – the other man had made him miss it, skulking around in the shadows, trying his hardest to resist his nature, not to mention all that time playing human with that _ridiculous_ girl. Still, he'd gotten to kill her and her household, so it wasn't all bad. That had reminded him of his last hurrah, at the estate of Sir William and Lady Mary, and that in turn reminded him of little Flora, the protégé he'd had to bundle off to Europe with Wyndham. He wondered how she was getting on. Hopefully, she'd have finally given up her humanity and he could enjoy her company without constantly having to look out for her lunging at him with a stake.

A human servant greeted him, as respectful as if he were royalty but silently and Harry realised he'd lost track, travelling, of where he was, which country and what language was spoken here. Never mind. French and German were usually understood where English wasn't, and he'd picked up a smattering of a few other languages, enough to get by, should he need to. The servant ushered him to the reception room where a decanter had been thoughtfully laid out for him. He sniffed at it; fresh, drawn only a few hours ago at most. It was good to be back in such company.

He looked around the room, idly curious about who it had belonged to before its current occupants had taken over. Certainly someone from old money, judging from the antiques lying about so carelessly. He could hear music drifting through the walls and was about to go and investigate when the door opened and Wyndham came in.

"Harry! Glad you finally caught up with us. I was concerned you wouldn't make it back this time."

"Ah, well, you know me. I hate to disappoint."

There was a small awkward pause; neither vampire wanted to draw attention to Lord Harry's occasional 'lapses' and Harry knew his friend understood it would be... embarrassing if he had to admit to what had caused his absence.

"Well, you arrived at a good time. We're having a party!"

Wyndham put a hand on Harry's shoulder, guiding him through to the ballroom, where a soiree was in full swing. A number of guests – mostly vampire, some not – were dancing and Harry saw a few faces he recognised but Flora was not one of them. Wyndham saw him looking and grinned.

"Looking for your little flower, Harry? She's certainly blossomed, I'll give her that. Will you even recognise her?"

Harry followed Wyndham's direction, past the dancers, to where a number of young men were gathered, all fashionably dressed and all human. Then one of them moved and Harry could see, holding court in the centre of them, was Flora.

She was dressed like a lady, her dark hair elaborately dressed and she looked radiantly beautiful. Her pale skin resembled fine porcelain – having to keep out of the sunlight was working in her favour, clearly – and her green eyes sparkled with vivacity. The young men were captivated by her, interrupting each other to brag of their achievements, trying to impress her, fighting each other for the chance to fetch her a drink, begging her to dance with them. Flora was gracious in her refusals, but each offer brought a satisfied smile to her face.

"I must congratulate you, Edgar. She's come a long way."

"Yes. It took a while at first, but once all that was over with, well you can see for yourself."

* * *

_At first, he'd only bothered to visit her once every few days, leaving her locked up and restrained the rest of the time, unattended. Her screams had been loud, but she'd brought the torment on herself in her refusal to obey, to feed. She'd fought, and begged, cursed and struggled, but he knew patience was the easiest way to win. She'd give in eventually._

_Then he'd gone down to her prison every day, bringing a glass with him each time, filled to the brim with fresh blood. He'd place it on a table before her, out of reach but close enough that the scent of it would drive her wild. And then he would leave._

_At the end of the day, he would return, and he would offer it to her. Torn between the pain of her hunger, the strength of her bloodlust and her desire to somehow remain human, she would refuse, though it was killing her to do so._

_Day by day, he would see her resistance wear down, her desperation growing stronger, until finally, finally, she'd given in. _

_He'd held the glass to her lips, letting her drink it down, and then he'd walked out again, locking the door behind him and he hadn't let anyone in for three more days._

_When he went back, she'd screamed herself hoarse, unable to utter a word, but she hadn't needed to. Everything about her begged him, her eyes, her face, the way she'd struggled so hard against the bindings she'd torn her skin, the ropes dark with her own blood._

_He stood there, glass in hand, studying her. Raised it to his lips as if intending to drink it in front of her and watched her break, completely and utterly._

_Then he'd let her drink, released her and from then on, she was his, obedient and grateful. He'd kept her supplied with all the blood she wanted, although he insisted she take it directly from the source, not decanted into glassware. And then he'd made her hunt down her own victims, knowing her addiction had total hold on her and that she was no longer a threat to him, herself or any other vampire. _

_Eventually, she'd begun to enjoy it, as he'd known she would. _

* * *

"She was a good choice. Have you come to claim her back?"

There was a dangerous note to Wyndham's words, a quiet reminder that Harry owed him and that he shouldn't forget that, or think the two of them were on equal footing. They were friends, but Wyndham had a lot of years on Harry still.

Harry thought about it.

"Not necessarily. I'm grateful to you for looking after her for me."

"Not at all. It was - entertaining."

Flora hadn't seen him yet, her attention held by the cloud of young men around her.

"But I would like to renew our acquaintance. If you'll excuse me?"

Wyndham nodded, and Harry made his way around the dancefloor, stepping past the human men as if they were not there.

"Mistress Flora. May I have this dance?"

She hid her surprise well; her training had included poise and self-control and she had learned her lessons well.

"Lord Harry. Mr Wyndham did not tell me you would be honouring us with your presence."

She rose gracefully to her feet, accepting his outstretched hand and ignoring her admirers.

He led her onto the dance floor; it was a promenade dance, one that did not involve constantly changing partners, giving him the chance to speak with her.

"You look exquisite," he told her, adopting the shadow hold, one arm around her shoulders, the other on her waist, leading her through the steps, although she needed no prompting.

"Thank you. You're looking well, Lord Harry. Mr Wyndham told me you had been taken ill and that was what kept you from us."

Harry noted that all trace of regional accent had gone from her voice; she sounded like a true aristocrat. She'd picked that up much faster than he had, when he was in her place.

"That is... partially true. I would have liked to have visited you sooner, but he tells me you have done well without me."

"That is another partial truth."

Flora wouldn't look at him and he sensed she was hiding something from him, a resentment that was almost anger beneath her composure.

"Are you displeased with me, Mistress Flora?"

"Displeased?"

Her facade of control began to fracture.

"_Whatever_ could I have to be displeased with you about?"

Harry tightened his grip on her, though she made no move to leave, continuing the steps as if they were discussing the weather.

"You still resent that I turned you? Perhaps you should consider the alternative. If I hadn't, you would be dead, one way or another. Or otherwise old and ugly. Yet here you are, young and beautiful still, breaking hearts."

"As my blessed mother used to tell me; we must make the best of what we have been given. God gave me one life and then you came along and took that. But you gave me another life, and it seems this is the one I must live. So I do. And the hearts of others are no longer of any concern to me, regardless of whether or not they are still beating."

"Yet still you seem displeased."

Flora's fingernails dug into his hand as he felt her tense beneath him.

"Thirty years, Lord Harry. _Thirty years_. You hand me over to that _psychopath _and then you vanish."

"Not through choice. I was – unavoidably detained."

"_Quel dommage." _

Somehow, Flora had picked up sarcasm along with her other refinements.

"And while you were 'unavoidably detained', I spent months being tortured!"

Her voice raised, her words carrying over the music and she stopped in the middle of the dance floor, tearing herself from his hands.

People stared. Other dancers halted in their steps to prevent themselves from bumping into her as she stood glaring up at him, green eyes blazing with fury, all composure gone.

For a moment, Harry wasn't sure what she would do, but then Flora, suddenly remembering where she was, looked over to where Wyndham stood watching them and she seemed to shrink. She dropped her gaze to the floor, her face turning ashen and she bowed her head, sweeping a curtsey.

"Lord Harry."

And she fled.

She managed to keep to a walk, but her body language showed how desperately she wanted to run and hide. Harry turned to find Wyndham, whose expression was cold and disapproving. He went back over to his friend.

"Passionate little thing, isn't she?"

"Have you been upsetting her, Harry? Seems that torch she's been carrying for you all these years isn't quite extinguished after all."

"She did seem upset I'd taken this long to visit. Though she tried to keep that from me, so it would seem she hasn't forgotten all her lessons."

Wyndham's face was no warmer.

"Still, she should know better than to embarrass me in public like that, regardless of her feelings for you."

Harry smiled, remembering how the blood-drunk Flora had surrendered her maidenhood to him in the orchard on the day he had turned her.

"I'm inclined to be forgiving, Edgar. She is young still. It was very different for us when we were that age, yes?"

Wyndham looked around the crowded ballroom as if seeing it anew.

"When I was her age, people still believed in the old gods, much as they weren't supposed to. She thinks I am brutal and cruel? She has no idea."

"Speaking of old gods... how was Mr Snow's visit?"

Wyndham's demeanour changed, lightening and motioned a servant over to pour them both wine.

"Wonderful. A whole village was sacrificed to us as tribute. I've never seen the old sod look more pleased."

There were perhaps two or three people in the entire world who could describe Mr Snow that way and survive. Wyndham was probably the only one who would say it out loud.

"And the others?" Harry asked.

"Much the same. You were missed, though."

"Really? I'm flattered."

"Well, you know they consider you to be one of us now, despite your occasional... prior engagements. What are you now, two hundred and fifty?"

"I was recruited in 1514."

Harry knew Wyndham was well aware of his age, probably knew everything there was to know about himself. But this was how the game was played, especially when it came to the Old Ones.

"Oh yes. A battlefield recruit, weren't you. That would explain a lot about you, old friend."

They left the ballroom, where the dancing had picked up again, as if Flora's little outburst had never occurred.

"But as I was saying, your absence was noted. It was a good thing I had Flora with me so I could present her as... an apology for nonattendance on your behalf."

"Ah."

Harry could imagine what that had meant for poor Flora. A new vampire, still struggling to adapt to her altered state, would react to a millennia-old monster like Mr Snow much the same as a human would.

"That would explain why she was so angry with me."

Wyndham shrugged.

"They found her amusing. It could certainly have gone much worse for her than it did. And it's served as a very effective reminder to behave herself since."

"And has she?"

Wyndham's smile was not one that many would have found reassuring.

"Oh yes. She's been a very good little girl since then."

* * *

It was fully dark by the time Harry saw her again. The dancing was finished, and the party had moved out into the formal gardens, lit by burning torches laid out at intervals along the paths. Servants directed the guests along them, and Harry noted they were dividing them into two groups, human and vampire. The living didn't seem aware of this, or that there were those at the house who were not in fact human. Flora's admirers especially, were more upset at being forcibly parted from her than the fact they were essentially being corralled like cattle.

"What's this?" Harry asked. "You have something planned? Some entertainment?"

Wyndham looked pleased.

"Of course, I didn't tell you! We're having a Hunt."

"Really? Isn't that a bit... old-fashioned?"

"Nonsense! It's a perfect way to welcome you back into the fold, get you back on track."

Harry raised his eyebrows.

"I've just come from Paris, Edgar. I trust you're aware of what's going on there? I took full advantage of that to get 'back on track' already."

"Then you have no reason not to join in."

"Alright. Why not."

More servants were appearing, and Harry could see some were leading horses, gathering together on the back lawn that stretched out across the grounds, towards the dark forests beyond. The vampire guests moved onto the lawn, choosing their horses, requesting changes of equipment from the servants.

"Oh-ho! A night ride!" One of the young human men hollered, cheerful with drink.

Harry noted he was speaking English – perhaps a minor nobleman on a Grand Tour, led astray

"May I ride with you, Mistress Flora?"

"No, me!" Another tried to shout his friend down, in French this time.

"Allow me to accompany you!"

Flora ignored them, stroking the nose of the beautiful dark mare she had chosen.

Harry and Wyndham mounted their own horses, watching her as she allowed a servant to help her up, settling into sidesaddle, arranging her skirts over her legs modestly.

By now, some of the humans were starting to look on edge, picking up on the strange, electric atmosphere.

"Hold up, that's my horse!" one of them called, trying to shove forward. His way was barred by a burly servant, a vampire one this time and the air of unease spread, intensifying.

Flora walked her horse over, finally deigning to acknowledge him.

"Why would you need a horse?" she asked, every inch a lady and a vampire.

"Your part in this excursion is the prey, not the hunter."

She cocked her head on one side, as if sizing him up.

"And on that note, hadn't you better start running? It won't be any fun at all if we catch you straight away."

Confusion reigned, the humans registering that they were somehow the butt of some great jape but not yet tumbling as to what it was.

Flora hissed, baring her fangs, her eyes scorching black and as the other vampires followed Flora's lead, letting their true natures show, panic broke out.

The human servants, knowing they were safe, at least for the time being, blocked the way back to the house, herding the victims out across the lawn. Still they hesitated.

Wyndham stepped his horse forward, taking out his pocket watch.

"Shall we say three minutes?"

The prey looked at each other, uncomprehending.

Harry stood up in the stirrups, the air of anticipation reaching fever pitch around him.

"_Run!"_ he yelled and the quarry finally understood. Stumbling over each other, they fled, heading for the trees, seeking shelter.

Flora gathered the reins in her hand, tensed and ready for action. Wyndham drew up alongside her, reaching over to lay a hand on her arm.

"Wait," he told her. She was practically panting in eagerness, her eyes still black as the night around them, but she obeyed.

He checked his watch as Harry joined them.

"Three minutes," Wyndham said and they watched their prey run.

Usually, Harry would be first to participate in an event like this one. But on this occasion, he was content to hang back and watch. It had been a long time since he'd seen a Hunt – generally they were considered a bit old hat, although Wyndham, being an Old One, could do whatever he wanted and others would go along with it. Harry preferred things to be less organised, more chaotic, like his visits to country houses.

And Flora was something to watch. The moment Wyndham released her, she sprang forward, her horse speeding into a gallop, running down the slowest of the escaping humans. Made clumsy with drink and terror, some had yet to reach the forest when she caught up with them. She felled the first with a kick to the head, unhooking her foot from the stirrup just long enough to slam it into the fleeing fellow's skull and he went down like a felled oak. She left him behind, leaning down to grab the next victim by the scruff of the neck, forward momentum lifting him off his feet and she threw him against the trunk of the tree he'd been heading for, hoping it would offer him shelter. His neck snapped on impact, crumpling to the ground as Flora rode into the forest.

Harry stayed close behind; the other vampires fanned out, moving through the trees in search of prey, sniffing out those who tried to hide. He glimpsed a figure attempting to climb a tree and saw that two vampires had dismounted and were circling the foot of the tree.

Wyndham had gone off his own way; perhaps he had a particular victim in mind, or just wanted to leave Harry and Flora to their own devices.

She took down another victim, one of her young admirers this time, knocking him under the horse's hooves and trampling him before she drew to a halt, slithering to the ground. Harry did the same, watching her scent the air.

The riding habit she'd changed into for the Hunt was among the more practical fashions available to a lady but she was still tightly corseted with a mass of frothy underskirts, though that didn't slow her down any. Stripping off her gloves, she tore off her shoes to feel the earth beneath her feet as she began to stalk the fleeing quarry, a habit Harry approved of, and one he had indulged in on a number of occasions himself.

He fell into step beside her, letting her lead.

"Enjoying yourself, little flower?"

"Don't call me that," she snapped.

"I know you all see me as an amusing pet, but I am no wilting blossom. I have proven myself, more than once."

"I'm sure you have. As I always knew you would."

Flora gave him a sideways glance, unsure if he were laughing at her, but he was sincere.

"You truly saw something in me when I was human?"

"Yes. As Wyndham said, I don't often recruit. But I could see potential in you even then."

She paused in her pursuit of prey, bobbing him a small curtsey.

"Then I thank you, Lord Harry."

"You are most welcome, Mistress Flora."

All of a sudden, she darted forward, pouncing on a figure that was trying to hide in the shadows, one of the few young women in the group of humans. There was a brief struggle, a shrill scream and then the body hit the ground. Flora knelt briefly over the dying girl, drinking enough to enjoy a taste but not her fill.

Harry glimpsed more escaping figures in the forest ahead, feeling his own bloodlust rise. This might not be his preferred pastime, but there was no reason not to take advantage of the opportunity.

"I will leave you to your hunting. Perhaps later we might-"

"Yes, yes, of course."

Flora was impatient to resume the chase.

"I look forward to it."

And she ran off, disappearing into the dark. Harry grinned, and began his own hunt.

* * *

In a matter of hours, it was all over. It could have taken less, but then there were those who preferred to take their time, to slowly close in on the prey, increasing the terror while simultaneously allowing them to think they stood a chance of escape. Which they did not.

Harry killed three himself; he could easily have taken down more, but he was Wyndham's guest, and he did not want to be impolite, especially when he was already in the other man's debt. On his way back, he ran into Flora once more.

She was drenched in the blood of her victims; having discarded the coat of her riding habit, her linen shirt was now more red than it was white and she was tearing the lace cuffs off to mop the last of the blood from her face.

"A good hunt, I trust?" he asked.

Flora let her head drop back, a sigh of pure and terrible delight escaping her.

"Indeed it was. Yourself?"

"Most fulfilling. Am I to take it, then, that your life here is to your satisfaction?"

Flora met his eyes; hers were almost glowing, a brilliant, unearthly shade of green.

"I don't know about satisfaction..."

And immediately his back was against the nearest tree, pinned to it as Flora kissed him, her passion fuelled by the blood she had consumed. This time, she was no inexperienced virgin and he wondered what she had been up to these last thirty years. Again, she ripped his shirt, her hair coming undone in his hands as they fell together under the trees once more.

* * *

As they made their way back to the house, they realised it was rather obvious what had occurred between them – clothing torn and in disarray, Flora barefoot and hatless, her dark tresses hanging loose down to her waist.

"Does Wyndham permit you to take lovers?"

Harry found he was oddly concerned about his protégé, and whether her current protector would be displeased at their amorous activities.

"He can be – disapproving, but he has never forbidden me my pleasure, so long as I obey him in all other things."

"And does he -"

Again, Harry was awkward. A hangover from the man he had been since he saw her last, no doubt.

"Bed me? No. He has made many demands of me, but not that one."

Flora saw the look of almost concern on him, her own expression moving to amused.

"Are you troubled over my welfare, Lord Harry? It wasn't that long ago I was trying to stake you."

"I don't forget that. Nor do I forget how you begged me to kill you, to let you die."

"I no longer wish for death. Though I will admit that there were many times since you left me that I thought of it. Mr Wyndham found it most humorous that someone who had been gifted eternal life would instead prefer oblivion."

"Mr Wyndham is nearly eight hundred years old. You don't get that far along without a strong survival instinct."

"And you, Lord Harry? You are over two hundred, are you not?"

"There's nothing wrong with my survival instinct. Hence my apprehension in offending my host."

Harry grinned at her again, offering her his coat. She accepted with an inclination of her head and he placed it around her shoulders, rendering her almost decent for company.

Across the sky, the first hints of dawn were starting to show and Flora frowned.

"It seems I must say 'good night', Lord Harry. Or 'good morning' may be more appropriate."

He kissed her hand decorously, as if they had not been violently making love only a short while earlier.

"Good night, Mistress Flora. I am very glad to have made your acquaintance once more."

He held open the door to the house, escorting her in with old-fashioned chivalry.

"As am I, Lord Harry," she replied with a smile, wrapping his coat tighter around herself as they went their separate ways.

"As am I."

* * *

Disclaimer: Flora's mine, but I'm not precious about ownership. The rest isn't mine anyway.

I thought I'd try a different version of Lord Harry here – he's technically the same man who killed Sylvie and her household, but he's... calmer here, almost content, a year or so having passed since he re-awoke. And he has an affection for Flora, more so now she's 'properly' a vampire and he doesn't want to hurt her. I don't think you see him with a woman as a companion in any flashbacks.

However, it can't last...


	8. Flora, 1879

**Flora, 1879**

Usually, Hal tried to avoid cities – too much temptation, too many warm bodies to lure him from his path – but there were times when it was inevitable. Particularly now, while his living was so unsteady. Perhaps if he could have kept his teaching job, it would have been alright; a small but decent boarding school in the countryside, where he could shut himself away. They hadn't seemed to mind his eccentricities, so long as the results were good, and they were; the boys knew more about history from the 16th Century to present day than they should have, certainly more than was in the books. And he hadn't even been tempted while teaching, not seriously, had never seen the boys as potential prey or even thought of feeding from them.

But then an old friend had come to visit, and he'd had to move on.

So now he was back to travelling, keeping moving to avoid falling off the wagon. Sometimes he found a little work, a place to stay that was suitable, but he couldn't stay or make any connections that he would end up regretting later. The memory of what he'd done to Sylvie and their household still threatened to send him over the edge, but he forced himself to remember; she deserved to be remembered.

Another thing he made sure he avoided, was other vampires. He couldn't chance it, even ones he'd never met before, who didn't know who he was. But then...

It was the voice at first, sparking in his memory, catching his attention. And then he felt that indefinable extra sense that alerted him to the presence of another vampire and he stopped.

"'ello Sir. Looking for a good time?"

The accent was coarse, obviously fake but then the man she was addressing wasn't paying attention, instead focussing on the low-cut dress she wore, marking her as a demi-mondain. Hal watched as she ushered her client down a narrow darkened alleyway, the man already adjusting his clothing in anticipation. But it wasn't the man's money she wanted, and Hal hesitated, not sure if he should intervene. He wanted to stop her, but he didn't know what was going on, why she was there, if there were others close by. He couldn't feel any, but he could be wrong; years without blood tended to dull those senses. Why would she be here? And picking up men on the street?

No, he couldn't let this happen.

Steeling himself, Hal rushed down the alleyway. The human man was groping at her skirts, so intent on getting what he'd paid for, he hadn't noticed the whore's eyes had turned black, her fangs descending as she moved in for the kill, her face a picture of hunger.

Hal shoved the man away, grabbing her by the shoulders, shaking her.

"Stop it! Leave him!"

"Hey! What's your game? I paid-"

Without even turning to look at the human, Hal struck out, his fist colliding with the man's jaw, knocking him backwards to hit his head on the wall, instantly out cold.

Cheated of her feed, she hissed, her frustration turning to fury as she lashed out at alHaHHal and it seemed to him that this was all they ever did; fight each other. If he ever needed another reminder of all his misdeeds, here she was. A girl who had been pure and innocent, corrupted and transformed entirely, unrecognisable from her human life, the one he had torn from her. She didn't seem to have recognised him; her hunger had taken her over and she couldn't see beyond it, but there was something more. She was weakened, desperate and Hal restrained her easily, catching her wrists and holding them. She struggled, but as the black faded from her eyes, something of herself returned.

"Lord Harry?"

She seemed confused, unsure but Hal held firm, not releasing her.

"Flora."

"What are you doing here? Did he send you after me?"

"Who do you mean?"

"Wyndham."

Fear crawled across Flora's face, genuine terror as she glanced up and down the alleyway, as if expecting the ancient vampire to swoop down on them at any moment.

"He told me he would, if I ever ran away. I've been expecting it."

Hal felt her tremble; if this was a trick, she was being very convincing.

"No-one sent me. I haven't seen Wyndham or any of the others for years. I'm – not part of that anymore."

Flora was utterly confused.

"But... what are you doing here?"

"What are _you_ doing here?"

Hal was no less mystified.

"Flora, what's going on?"

Flora stared at him, her eyes wide and frightened.

For a moment they stood there, locked together. Then Flora burst into tears, any remaining fight going out of her as she fell forward, slumping against Hal.

Horribly uncomfortable, he held her, awkwardly, as she cried.

* * *

Later, when they were safely tucked up in the room he was renting, away from any prying eyes or tempting heartbeats, Flora explained. Calmer now, she told him how she had begun to regain her conscience, remorse for all the lives she had taken breaking through her bloodlust, the enjoyment she had developed for causing pain and killing. Sickened, she had tried to hide her feelings until she was sure she could escape. A vampire for over a century, the others no longer watched her as closely as when she was a new recruit and she was careful not to give herself away, although her lack of enthusiasm was noted. But then a stroke of luck; Wyndham was called away and he left her behind. As soon as she was sure he was far away, she had fled, returning to England alone.

"I tried not to feed," she confessed, her eyes still bright with tears. "But it's so strong-"

"I know."

Hal kept his voice quiet, letting her speak.

"So I started-"

She looked down at her dress, the one that led men to think she was a whore.

"They come with me willingly. And I don't kill them, I just feed. And then I move on, so they don't find me again. It works but-"

She closed her eyes, hands clenching into fists in her lap.

"But there's still a part of me that wants to hurt them. Especially when I see how they treat girls like me – like they think I am. I just want it all to stop!"

Hal put a hand over hers, squeezing it reassuringly.

She met his eyes again.

"But I can't... I want it to end, but if I do it myself... that's a mortal sin. My soul is already damned, I know but-"

Hal was horrified.

"Flora, no! It's not too late. You can still be saved."

Her eyes once more filled with tears, but she held onto them, not letting them spill.

"You can be clean – I can help you."

"Clean? I killed people, many people and I enjoyed it. I wanted to do it, for the pleasure it gave me. That is what I have – what we have on our conscience and you talk about _clean_?"

"Flora, listen. Did none of the others ever tell you why I am so frequently absent? The real reason why I left you with Wyndham?"

Flora frowned, not following.

"Why do you think I'm here now? Why I stopped you feeding?"

"I... I don't know. You don't seem like the man I know. The man who turned me."

The truth was starting to dawn on Flora, breaking through her misery.

"I'm not him. Like you, it started with fits of conscience. But the person I had become when I was turned... I wasn't very nice then either. It was easy to ignore them at first, but they built up inside, getting stronger and stronger. My dreams were filled with remorse and self-hatred and then they broke through and one day I woke up and I truly wasn't the same man anymore. I ran away from the other vampires I was with, I stopped feeding, or tried at least. It lasted for years. Then the monster I had become awoke and I – reverted. After that it came in cycles, one winning over the other."

Flora's eyes widened as she recognised what he was saying.

"And now you are... a vampire with a conscience?" she asked.

Hal nodded.

"It's a little more complicated than that, but yes. I feel as if I have become two men in one body, fighting for dominance. By not feeding, not killing, I can keep him at bay, remain myself, the one closest to human. And I hope that this time, he will not return."

There was a moment of silence as she took this in.

"I would never have believed it, if you were not sitting here with me now, telling me yourself. You were... we hunted together. You enjoyed it as much as I did. The other vampires see you as something of a legend."

She frowned.

"But I still don't understand... why did you give me to Wyndham?"

Hal sighed heavily.

"There are times when I can sense a change is coming. He – the man who recruited you – could tell I was about to return and he sent you away because he didn't want me to have you. He knew I would try to help you when he instead wanted you to be... the vampire you became."

The unshed tears spilled over, streaming down Flora's face but she kept her sobs inside, staring at him, working it all out.

"If it makes you feel any better, he would have been no better a teacher than Wyndham. Indeed he may have been worse."

Flora stared, her self-control rapidly dissolving.

"Worse?"

She got to her feet, pacing the tiny room.

"No, my lord Harry, you could not have been worse. No-one could, ever."

Hal got up too, holding out a hand to her but she ignored it, her distress rising.

"Flora-"

"Did you know what he would do, when you gifted me? Not just forcing me into the shape he wanted, making me kill but the way he enjoyed it. Making my pain into his entertainment. Not to mention when the Old Ones arrived-"

She turned away from him abruptly, facing the wall but Hal could see she was shaking.

"They laughed at me. Everything I suffered was amusing to them. I was a toy for them to sport with – she even said that to me, called me her plaything."

"Who did?"

"Hetty. She took a liking to me."

Hal didn't know what to say. Out of all the Old Ones, it was difficult to say who was the worst, excepting Mr Snow. When Hal was the other man, he knew he was a contender but Hetty... she was inventive in a way he could never dream of. Perhaps because she'd been so young when she was recruited, her childish imagination warped into a sadistic nightmare.

"By then it was an addiction. The blood, I mean. But everything else... I still struggled and they thought that splendidly amusing. The things they made me do..."

Hal came up behind her quietly, putting his hands on her shoulders as gently as he could.

"If I could have helped you, I would have. But when I left you, I was still him. And then... I had my own problems, I was trying so hard to control myself and I didn't know if you were still alive."

Hal hated how pathetic those words sounded, ineffective and useless but this was part of the cycle; round and round it went. He committed horrible crimes, then he faced up to them and if anyone survived, he tried to make it up to them.

"And then this time, when I became myself again... I knew I had to run from the others, to hide, if I stood a chance of remaining this way. I did not know you too would regain your conscience."

She stopped trembling, her whole frame tense.

"Let me help you now. It's not too late."

"Too late for what?"

Flora whirled around, some of her old fierceness returning.

"Salvation is not meant for those like us, even if we repent. I can't even go into a church, let alone make confession!"

"I'm not talking about anything that conventional. We must exist outside the human world. But we're not the first to try repentance; there are alternatives."

Flora shivered, still caught up in the horror of her existence, her past, her guilt and trauma.

"If you're willing... let me be your confessor. And you can be mine. We can save each other."

She didn't reply and Hal realised that wouldn't exactly sound appealing to her.

"Or... I have a better idea."

* * *

Another journey, with a familiar ending.

Again, the house was almost empty, though this time for happier reasons – the family were abroad, leaving behind a skeleton staff, hence how Hal knew it would be safe to visit. Nonetheless, they travelled by public coach as far as they could, then they walked. Flora was more than happy to abandon her whore's costume and had baulked at Hal's suggestion she dress as a lady again. As they made their way across the grounds, she brought it up again.

"I was born ordinary, and that's how I should have lived. If I hadn't left this estate, I'd never have forgotten my station."

"I wasn't born into nobility either," Hal reminded her. "There is nothing wrong in changing your situation."

But Flora was barely listening, her gaze sweeping across the estate she never believed she'd see again.

"I thought I'd spend my life here. Marry my sweetheart – John, the gardener's lad."

She smiled in nostalgia for simpler, happier times and Hal noticed traces of her old accent creeping back in.

"I'd work my way up to housekeeper, he'd become head gardener. We'd have children, and I'd look after Lady Mary's children too. Stay with the family."

Her smile faded again.

"Course, if I had, everyone'd be dead by now. My children. Their children even."

She pushed the thought away, pointing out an ivy covered statue standing on a plinth by the fountain.

"I was named for that statue. Mother worked in our village, but whenever she came up to the big house, she'd come and look at this."

Hal looked over the worn stone carving.

"Roman Goddess of the Spring."

Flora nodded.

"She used to put flowers on this statue, same as she'd light candles for us in church. She told me this goddess would protect me when I came to work here."

She put her hand on the cold stone, letting the memories wash over her.

Hal stood behind, awkward. His own guilt was always magnified whenever he came back here, but visiting made him more determined to stay clean. He hoped this would help Flora, didn't want to put his own problems onto hers.

Thankfully, their reason for visiting chose that moment to make her appearance.

It was dusk by now – Flora was strong enough to travel in daylight now, but both preferred to stay away from the sun when they could – and the staff were closing up the house for the night. Just as they swung the French windows shut, Lady Mary's ghost swept past them, unseen. Resplendent in her hundred-years-outdated dress, she made her way down the steps. It was difficult, for obvious reasons, for Hal to arrange an exact time to visit her; letters to the house addressed to a woman dead for over a century tended not to get delivered and replies proved even more problematic.

But she knew he would be coming, and when her eye fell on him, stepping out from behind the fountain now the house staff had gone, her face lit up.

"Lord Harry!"

She hurried towards him, holding her skirts up out of the way. Hal bowed to her formally and Lady Mary remembered herself, slowing and making a curtsey.

"It is so good to see you again."

"Likewise, Lady Mary. And I brought a mutual friend with me."

Mary's brow furrowed, not following. Hal smiled – indeed, how many people would they both know?

But then Flora stepped forward and Mary gasped in shock. Flora bobbed her maid's curtsey.

"My lady."

"Oh my goodness – Flora?"

Mary reached out her hands and Flora clasped them within her own.

"I thought you were dead!"

Flora shook her head, eyes bright with tears, unable to speak.

"My apologies," Hal interjected. "I kept her survival from you because the situation was... complicated. I was not always in contact with her, and I did not wish to raise your hopes."

"I've been in Europe." Flora found her voice.

"But you are... you are the same."

Mary glanced over at Hal.

"Lord Harry told me he had... recruited you."

"Yes, I am a vampire. But like Lord Harry, I'm not... I don't take part in that life anymore. He's helping me to stay clean."

Mary's eyes had also filled with tears.

"I never believed I would see you again! I have been so alone here, and now here you are!"

The two women embraced, laughing and crying at the same time and Hal knew he had done the right thing in bringing Flora here.

* * *

Later, when it was full dark, Lady Mary led the three of them back into the house – she had learned the ghost trick of teleportation and could bypass the locked doors, opening them from inside and guiding them to a series of rooms that were otherwise shut up, undisturbed by the servants.

At first, Hal was uneasy – he had briefed Flora on his visits to Lady Mary, and how she did not know of the cyclical nature of his control over himself. But Flora had promised she would not betray his confidence, so long as Hal did not inform Mary of what Flora had done in the hundred and sixteen years since Mary had seen her last. There would be a right time to tell her such things, they had agreed, not wanting to overwhelm her or give away the other's secrets.

And Hal was pleased to see that Mary had a calming effect on Flora. He could see she still struggled with the underlying bloodlust – the way her hands shook, how she wouldn't go anywhere near where the human servants went because she knew she would be tempted by them. Hal still felt it himself, but he'd been clean longer, which made it a little easier. Being around her old mistress reminded Flora of her human life, the person she had been and it alleviated Hal's guilt a little to be able to give her that gift. Not that it let him forget everything else he'd done to both Mary and Flora.

At first, they talked a little about their lives current and past, and Mary told them about the estate – the new family that had moved in after a few years of legal wrangling, the children born there, generations that followed, how happy she was to see the house come back to life. She seemed content, comfortable even, though she was clearly hiding how lonely she was.

"Do you never leave the estate?" Flora asked.

Mary shook her head.

"No-one living can see me, so where would I go? No, I am safer here. Besides, when the family are home, there is so much to occupy myself with! The little ones are so noisy, and it makes me happy to watch them play."

There was a brief, awkward silence, the three of them aware that they would never be able to have children of their own. Then Mary smiled brightly, ever the hostess.

"And you should see the library now! Such a collection. I feel I will never be able to read everything within. And when Lord Morgan is home, he has a number of periodicals delivered, so I can keep up with the world."

"Perhaps it is time that changed." Flora smiled at her former mistress.

"The one thing I don't regret of my changed life is that I've travelled so far, seen so much. If I'd stayed human, I'd never have seen the things I've seen. True, not all of them have been good-"

She pressed her hands together so that Mary wouldn't see them tremble, trying to think of positive memories.

"But Lady Mary... you used to travel abroad. Wouldn't you like to again?"

Mary pulled her shawl around her, shrinking back in the chair.

"Oh... I couldn't. Not even with you, Flora. The world-"

She glanced at Hal, trying to find the right words, not wanting to offend the two vampires she was entertaining.

"The world is full of things that are dark and frightening. Now I have seen that, I could not travel as dear William and I did. It would not be the same."

"But-"

Flora leaned forward, wanting to help Mary, to encourage her out of the safe little cocoon she had made for herself in her former home. But Hal placed a restraining hand on her back.

"I think what Flora is trying to say is that we would both very much like to take advantage of your hospitality here but that the two of us cannot remain here undetected as you do. And more time with you may help her to keep control of her – more unpleasant urges."

Mary smiled.

"As with you, Lord Harry. Knowing that by receiving you here I am helping you to remain clean is a great comfort to me."

Flora threw him a sharp look and Hal's hand knotted the back of her dress, urging her to keep silent. He was not ready to make confession to Lady Mary just then.

"Yes," Flora spoke up.

"I don't wish to distress you, Lady, but I hoped I could... unburden myself a little to you. If you're willing."

Mary put on a brave face.

"Of course. Anything for a true friend. And I do not believe there is all that much in this world that can shock me now."

"Should I leave you?"

Hal got to his feet, suddenly very uncomfortable. His abandoning of Flora had caused her more suffering than his having turned her and he was struggling to face all that, particularly with the ghost of another of his victims sitting there in front of him.

"Perhaps that would be best, for a while," Flora replied. "Forgive me, Lord Harry, but there are some things I do not wish to share with you."

Hal was glad of that. The details she had shared of the time they spent apart had been very difficult to hear. Politely, he bowed and left. He would find somewhere else to wait.

* * *

The servants had gone to bed, so Hal lit a lamp in the library and perused the shelves. Lady Mary was right; the collection was remarkable.

He was reading through a biography of the Morgan family's infamous black sheep - a 17th century swashbuckling privateer who sounded like the sort of man his other self would get on with _extremely_ well – when the women came down to join him.

Flora looked more composed than he'd seen her since they reunited and Mary too seemed quite animated, which was reassuring. He didn't know exactly what Flora had confessed to, but he doubted any of it was something Mary wanted to hear. But then it was the whole reason he had for bringing Flora here in the first place.

They walked in, arm in arm, as if there had never once been a social barrier between them, as if they did not now occupy two different categories of dead. And by the looks on their faces, the slightly guilty giggle he heard as they approached, they had been talking about him.

Hardly surprising; he'd bedded and killed both of them, not necessarily in that order.

He got to his feet.

"Ladies."

They curtsied.

"Lord Harry."

"I trust that your joining me indicates further conversation will be fit for my ears," he remarked, his tone light, almost teasing.

Flora and Mary exchanged a glance, stifling further giggles. They had _definitely_ been discussing him.

As he pulled out chairs for them both, Lady Mary saw the book he had been reading.

"Ah yes, another Sir Henry with a somewhat... remarkable life story. I am not surprised this drew your interest, although the family here do not know if they should be ashamed or proud of such a relation."

"You've read this?" Hal was surprised; it seemed a little... lurid for Lady Mary's tastes. But Mary smiled.

"A little. The older children are thrilled to have a pirate for an ancestor. I've seen them act out plays about him when there are no adults around to box their ears for such behaviour."

A sudden noise from down the corridor cut their conversation short; a servant approached. Had they been overheard? Hal reached for the lamp, shutting off the gas and plunging the room into darkness as they waited, listening to the footsteps draw closer.

Hal took Flora's arm, drawing her behind the heavy curtain in concealment. As he pulled the material around them, he realised that Flora was shaking. Her hands clenched and as the moonlight fell upon them, he saw that her eyes had burned black – she could hear the pulse of the approaching man and it was calling to her, the desire to feed still strong within her.

Hal took her face in his hands, staring into those pitch-black eyes, searching for the woman within.

"Flora," he whispered. "Stay with me. Concentrate."

Flora hissed, her struggle visible and Hal put one hand over her mouth as the library door opened, the lamp the servant carried casting shadows across the room that was, as far as he could see, empty.

Hal found he was, uselessly, holding his breath. Flora had shut her eyes, her chest hitching in a way that would, had she been human, have led him to think she would faint. But Flora was no swooning heroine from a romantic novel, her situation was not caused by tight corseting but instead an internal struggle between the person she wanted to be and the monster she was.

And at that moment, Hal wanted nothing more than to be able to grant her that desperate wish he knew was impossible. But he could help her.

The door closed again, the servant going back to bed now they were assured the house wasn't being ransacked by burglars. Hal carefully took his hand away, watching Flora try her hardest to control herself.

"Flora. I'm here. Are you?"

She put her hands over her closed eyes, moaning in despair as she sank to the floor, her back to the window.

"It won't stop," she cried. "I try so hard, I just want it to stop!"

"It will. I promise. Please, Flora."

He knelt beside her, taking hold of her hands and gently pulling them from her eyes.

"Look at me."

She drew in a breath, held it, released it slowly, as she would have when human.

And then slowly, carefully, she opened her eyes and they were green once more.

"There. You see? You're stronger then you think. It'll be alright."

As he lifted her to her feet, he tried to ignore the look on her face that said how much she didn't believe him.

Lady Mary was waiting for them at the far end of the room, trying to pretend she hadn't heard their exchange.

"I have been neglectful in my hosting duties."

She spoke quietly, not wanting to risk the return of the servants, and also trying to hide how shaken she was at seeing Flora struggle like that.

"I shall fetch us some tea."

She vanished, teleporting away as Hal led Flora over to a chair. She sat obediently, but did not let go of his hands, clinging to them as if she could absorb some of his control.

"Do you still feel it? Could you hear him too?"

"Yes," Hal confessed. "But it no longer rules me to the extent it once did. You will learn to keep it in check."

"But how long will it last?" She stared into his eyes, desperate, despairing.

"You said it goes in cycles; eventually you'll lose control. What's to say that won't happen to me too, one day?"

"I will do everything I can to prevent that. Mary and I will help you. Don't give up."

For a moment, she kept staring, didn't reply. Then she released his hands, moving her gaze to the middle distance. He smoothed down her hair, planting a platonic kiss on her forehead.

"Perhaps we should retire for the night. Things may seem different in the morning."

But in the end they stayed up together the rest of the night, drinking the tea Mary prepared – she had learned a number of new skills in the years since her death, now the servants in the house could not see or hear her, even skills that were, to her, useless since she could no longer drink – and later a bottle of brandy from the cellar. It wasn't as good as the brandy Hal remembered Sir William offering him, all those years ago, but it was welcome nonetheless. They filled the hours talking about everything and nothing - Mary quizzed them both eagerly on events they had witnessed across the world, wanting to know what London was like now, what fashions there were, looking down at her dress, once the finest money could buy and the envy of her peers, now sadly outmoded.

Hal edited his answers heavily, missing out anything he had done when he was 'lapsed' and living the life of the other man, too ashamed to admit to Mary that he had not kept his promise to her and made her his last victim. But she wanted to know about the places he and Flora had seen, still unwilling to leave her sanctuary but happy to live vicariously through them.

Eventually, the sun began to push its light through the curtains, and they were forced to withdraw back to the closed-off rooms where they would be undisturbed by the rousing servants. Mary led Flora to the furthest away room, where she would hopefully be unable to hear the heartbeats of the living that tormented her so, and Hal retired to his own room to sleep.

* * *

Mary woke him, hours later. He awoke with a start to find her standing at the foot of the bed, instantly bringing back memories of his first return to this house, when he had almost expected her to kill him in his sleep.

But this time, her expression was distressed, horrified and utterly bereft. Hal leapt up, hurrying to her.

"Lady Mary, what is it? What has happened?"

"I-"

She was shaking, shocked tears starting up in her eyes.

"Lord Harry, I do not know what to say!"

"Is it Flora?"

Mary nodded and Hal, fearing the worst, rushed out of the room.

Had she been unable to resist the bloodlust? Had she risen in the night and killed once more? He shouldn't have left her, shouldn't have placed the burden of her care onto Lady Mary.

He pushed open the door to Flora's room, half-expecting to see it painted in spilled blood.

But she wasn't there.

The room appeared empty, with only her clothes lying discarded on the floor and for a moment Hal did not understand. Then he looked again, and he saw how her dress had crumpled to the ground, the layer of what seemed to be dust that coated it and the full horror hit him so hard he fell down.

"Oh my Flora, no!"

Mary appeared behind him and she was crying properly now.

"She begged me! I told her I couldn't do it, but she begged me to set her free, to grant her peace and I-"

She knelt down, her hands reaching for Flora's dress, then drawing back, unable to touch it.

"You staked her."

Hal was in shock. He'd know Flora had once seen death as an escape and he'd feared she would turn that way once more, but not now, not like this...

Mary cried out in anguish.

"I didn't want to... I pleaded with her to remain, but she told me she couldn't face being what she was any more and that this was the only way. I couldn't stand to see her suffer so."

Hal closed his eyes, everything he and Flora had said to each other the previous night flashing through his mind. He'd known she was in pain, recognised how hard it was for her to struggle with her nature, as he struggled with his own. But he'd thought he had reached her, could save her still. And yet again, he had failed her.

"Lord Harry, please..."

Mary touched his arm and almost automatically, he leaned toward her, putting his arm around her shoulder to comfort her.

"It's alright, Lady Mary. You did the right thing. She's at peace now."

He heard the words as if someone else had spoken them, meaningless platitudes to ease her pain while he strove to understand what had happened. How could Mary have done this? Surely she wasn't capable, even if Flora had been able to convince her.

Mary wiped away her tears.

"She told me that she would do it herself if I didn't help her, even though it was a mortal sin. She said this way she might stand a chance, that God might one day forgive her."

There was his answer then. Mary had done it out of love for her friend, though it had nearly broken her to do it. Though he must shoulder the blame for it all – he had turned Flora into what she was and it was because of him that Mary had been there to grant Flora's final wish.

"We should bury her."

Mary was startled out of her tears at his words, looking from the slight remains on the floor to Hal.

"Whatever do you mean?"

Hal began to gather up the fallen clothing, trying to keep as much of the dust together as he could.

"There's a chapel here, isn't there? A graveyard?"

"Y-yes. I myself am buried there, as is Sir William."

"Good. She said she once thought she would live and die here. She deserves a burial."

He got to his feet, holding the dress close to his chest.

"Will you make sure none of the servants see me?"

Mary nodded, wide-eyed and vanished, going ahead to clear him a path and Hal carried what was left of Flora out of the house.

* * *

There was a beautifully carved stone memorial in the graveyard for Mary and her husband and Hal stood before it, reading the inscription. Beneath their names, there was an addition:

"_**In memory of all those who died in the tragedy of 1763."**_

Hal couldn't put a name to what he was feeling.

" 'The tragedy'. Is that how people remember what I did?"

Mary stood quietly beside him.

"No-one knows what happened beside you and me. No-one survived."

Hal knelt at the foot of the stone, closing his eyes as the self-disgust came rushing up inside.

"She deserves better than this."

Mary placed a hand on his shoulder.

"She's home, Lord Harry. That is all she wanted."

Gently, reverently, Hal put down the bundle he carried and began to dig a hole before the memorial. He had no tools, so he used his hands and when he felt it was deep enough, he placed Flora's remains in it and covered them over.

He smoothed down the broken soil and as he got up, Lady Mary stepped forward and placed a single flower she had picked on top.

"She told me her mother named her for the statue you have in the grounds," Hal added.

"The Roman goddess. Perhaps I should have placed her there-"

"This is where she would want to be. With her friends."

"Yes. Her sweetheart will be here too, I imagine."

"She had a sweetheart? I had no idea."

"The gardener, I believe. That's what she told me."

"Ah."

A small smile rose to Mary's lips.

"That would be the gardener's apprentice. John, his name was. I should have known. She mentioned him often enough."

They remained silent for a moment, then Mary folded her hands together and began a prayer.

When she was done, she turned to Hal, puzzled.

"How is it you can stand on hallowed ground? I understood vampires were vulnerable to holy objects, couldn't cross onto church land."

"I am old, Lady Mary. Such things do not have any hold on me any longer."

"Oh."

She thought about it.

"Then perhaps someday, you will also be laid to rest here."

Hal had not thought anything else would shock him that day.

"Forgive me," she continued. "I do not mean that I wish for your death, of course not. But should you one day cross over-"

"I am honoured by your kind offer, Lady Mary. And perhaps one day, I may be worthy of it."

Another silence, broken only by birdsong. It was a beautiful spot and Hal's torment was eased a little at the thought of Flora resting here. And when he came to visit Mary, he could visit Flora also.

"For now, if I may impose on your hospitality a little longer? I fear I am not in any state to inflict myself upon the wider world."

"Of course, Lord Harry. I am always pleased to receive you here."

Hal knew both of them were repressing their feelings, play-acting their old roles so that they would not have to think about what had happened. But he was glad of it.

"Thank you, Lady Mary. I believe you mentioned that the family were building a summerhouse?"

The two of them walked away, resuming their familiar relationship of host and guest, leaving Flora behind to sleep in the earth of her old home, at peace at last.

* * *

I only just realised there is some division on how to spell "Wyndham", but I kept it the same for continuity and not at all because I prefer my way of spelling it ;) (Thinking of John Wyndham, the writer).

BTW, the Morgan family's "infamous black sheep" mentioned here is 'Captain' Henry Morgan, (no relation to my nom-de-plume, but someone I highly recommend Wikipedia-ing). I'm working on the idea here that Mary's house is actually Tredegar House, where the episode was filmed, with just a few adjustments.

Also, the bit where Hal lost his teaching job in 1865 when "an old friend had come to visit, and he'd had to move on" is a reference to my other story "Haunts Old And New" and my OC Jude, a centuries old witch Hal has a somewhat... complicated history with.


	9. Judith, 1648

I've been a bit self-indulgent with the last few chapters, and I'm afraid it continues here – a reviewer who didn't leave their name suggested I write about this part of Hal's past, with my OC Judith from "Haunts Old And New", (I had considered doing something similar as a flashback in that story). So 'Guest' this is for you!

* * *

**Judith, 1648**

She was dancing when he saw her.

There was some kind of impromptu festival taking placing in the market square, with a small band of musicians striking up a merry tune. Harry's eye was caught by a swirl of colour: a young woman had taken her partner's hands and was spinning him around to the music, the red of her dress standing out among the soberly dressed crowd like a splash of blood.

He noticed the disapproving glances of the bystanders before he looked at her properly; the way she wore her long dark hair loose, the scandalous cut and colour of her clothes, and the olive tone of her and her lover's skin probably didn't help. For all that London was filled with travellers and traders, those that didn't look the same would always stand out and be judged for it, especially when there were so many Puritans among the crowd.

The young man she was with whirled her around, the pair of them enjoying the moment and it was only as she lost her footing, falling against the man's chest, laughing, that Harry recognised her.

He stopped, staring at her with narrowing eyes and Wyndham, walking next to him, followed his gaze.

"Someone you know, Harry?"

"Trouble," was Harry's terse reply and Wyndham sniffed the air, like a hunting dog getting a scent.

"Witch."

The old vampire had been in an almost good mood that day, but now it visibly darkened.

Harry took a few steps closer; she hadn't noticed him, too distracted by the music and her lover.

"She's powerful. Been around longer than I have; I've seen some of what she's capable of. Could be dangerous."

"Then let's take care of it now."

Wyndham looked around for his attendants; two hulking vampires he employed as muscle but Harry stopped him.

"I have a better idea. Humans might not believe we are real, but they are aware that witches exist. They have their own systems. Let them take care of her."

"Is this sentiment, Harry? She an old friend?"

Harry smiled and it was clear what had led him to intervene was not concern for the witch.

"Not to me, she isn't. And as I said, she could be dangerous; let the humans take the risk. That way I can watch."

Wyndham gave a smile of his own, and it had no more warmth than that of his companion.

"Very well. I'll leave it to you."

* * *

She was sleeping when they took her.

Forewarned, the witch-takers didn't risk arresting her the way they usually would, but instead went to the house she and her lover shared in the middle of the night and set it on fire.

Surrounding the little house in a ring, the men waited, armed with a bewildering array of weaponry that Harry found most amusing. He'd told them much about Judith's skills, and everything he knew about a witch's vulnerabilities, but they still preferred to carry Holy Water and crosses – Harry wondered if that would have any effect on a Jewish witch, even one who'd broken her faith centuries earlier. Certainly he didn't want to get too close for fear of revealing his own nature – he found it extremely annoying that such items still held such a power over him. He was sure Wyndham, who had 'outgrown' such trivial matters centuries past, did things like taking shortcuts through churchyards on purpose, just so he could enjoy the sight of an angry Harry stranded at the threshold, unable to follow.

The man came out first, staggering and coughing as the thatched roof began to collapse. The witch-takers cut him down immediately, taking no chances even though he wasn't himself a witch; simply being in league with one was enough to warrant execution and in that way perhaps he was fortunate.

Harry could hear Judith trying to incant something protective, attempting to save her home, but the flames were too fierce, and she'd been caught unawares. Moments later, she came stumbling out, dressed only in her linen shift and Harry was a little surprised to see she hadn't sensed what was waiting for her.

Through streaming eyes, Judith saw the butchered body of her lover lying where he'd fallen. Tried to scream, but the smoke had stolen her voice and she fell to her knees, clutching at his bloodied corpse and while she was distracted, the witch-takers made their move.

At first, they'd been suspicious at Harry's insistence they clad her in iron, but he'd told them it was the only way to bind true witches; not those who had just sold their soul but those who had been granted fearsome powers. At that point, it seemed they'd decided to take his word for it, believing he was involved in the work of witch-taking himself, and Harry had made no effort to correct them. It was purely by chance that Harry had learned this, didn't know if Judith herself knew it, but he'd seen it used before and he didn't doubt its effectiveness.

Taking on the information Harry had provided them (not to mention the eagerness of her neighbours to offer gossip and slander about the foreign man and his whore, who lived together but were not married and were not too convincing in their taking part at Church), the witch-takers seemed to feel it was best to treat Judith as some kind of wild beast, and to put her down as quickly as possible. But they wanted her alive; a witch-taking without a confession was only half the job.

So as soon as they surrounded her, one of them rendered her unconscious with a swift blow to the head, while the others fastened iron chains around her wrists, ankles and neck before dragging her off to the waiting cart and spiriting her away to the gaol.

* * *

She was screaming when he visited her.

Harry had been curious as to what constituted a witch trial nowadays – they weren't going to just throw her into a pond to see if she sank, not after what Harry had told them about her.

She had a cell all to herself; indeed, they had pretty much emptied the whole building, so convinced were they that she was a genuine handmaiden to Satan himself, not just some old woman who was a bit strange, or a healer whose abilities went further than everyone was comfortable with. Of course, Harry had no idea what she'd been up to since he saw her last; it wasn't likely she'd been going around withering crops or hexing anyone's livestock but he knew she could if she wanted to, and much more.

He waited until the Inquisition were finished with her, for the time being at least, before he went in to see her.

She was slumped against the wall, her wrists and ankles shackled to the floor in front of her, the collar attached to the wall behind her by a chain. But even if she had been free, she would have found escape difficult; the Inquisitors had been very busy with her and in trying to extract a confession, they had shattered the bones in her hands and feet, after pulling out her nails and the straw scattered over the floor of the cell was wet with her blood.

Harry wondered what her blood tasted like. Would the power within her be detectable or had Judith laid spells upon herself for protection against creatures like him? That seemed likely; for all her recent carelessness, she wouldn't have left herself that vulnerable.

Judith looked exhausted, her olive skin pale and they had hacked off most of her hair, perhaps believing that her magic dwelled there, Samson-like. She didn't look up as he came in.

"I might have known it was you. Now Matthew Hopkins is dead, someone had to take his place and I'm sure one of your lot would just love to be Witch Finder General."

Her voice was hoarse; whether this had been caused by smoke from the fire or screaming through the torture was unclear.

"Shame you couldn't have seen this coming, then. If you could tell it was me even without any of your spells."

Finally Judith looked up at him and the look in her eyes was unrecognisable. The Judith he'd seen before was someone who lived her life with a fierce passion, someone who had overcome an inauspicious beginning in life to pursue happiness with determination. It wasn't the physical pain and suffering that had brought her down; it was the death of her lover and the way the life she had built had been snatched away, the death of hope.

And Harry knew if he had let Wyndham have her killed, he would never have gotten to see that look.

"Why are you here? Are you sunk so low that you feel the need to come and gloat over me?"

"In a word, yes."

Harry leaned back against the door, folding his arms.

"If by 'sunk so low' you're referring to the man I was last time we met, that is."

"Forgive me if I don't seem more concerned by how you can be two men in one body."

Judith made a weak effort to shake the chains around her wrists.

"I have problems of my own right now. I assume you were the one who told them it had to be iron?"

"Yes, that tidbit of information really did come in handy. I wonder what else your demon maker left you vulnerable to?"

"A few things, I'm sure. Thankfully your charm isn't one of them."

Harry grinned.

"Not quite that easy to defeat, then."

Something of the old Judith sparked in her eyes, defiant and determined.

"You think this is the first time anyone ever hurt me? Why do you think I became a witch in the first place?"

"Much the same reason I became a vampire, I imagine. Human life was too small for you, and you couldn't say no to an offer like that."

"If my maker had been a vampire," Judith replied with contempt. "I'd have spat in his face. Even when you're nice you, you're still a killer. Little more than an animal."

"Whereas you're pure and innocent?"

For all that he was enjoying tormenting her, Harry's voice was cold.

"Remind me which one of us is locked up in a cell being tortured again?"

Judith's face contorted through a number of expression and Harry knew if she were unbound, he would be paying for his words very dearly. But she was powerless and they both knew it.

"Why couldn't you have just let us be? They didn't need to kill Samuel."

"Was that your lover? Surely you didn't think he would just be allowed to walk away? Even without your craft, being secret Jews would be enough to get you both executed."

"Neither of us are Jews. He was converted when he was a child and I broke my faith a _very_ long time ago. We went to church, every Sunday. We did the same as all our neighbours."

"And neither of you believed a word of what you were doing. You got sloppy, Judith."

"We just wanted to live our lives. He didn't have to die."

Tears streaked the grime and soot smeared across her face.

"But he would have died one day, wouldn't he? And you would have remained the same, ageless and immortal. We don't get ordinary lives and people like us shouldn't want them."

"_**I'm nothing like you**_**!"** Judith shrieked at him, her abused vocal cords straining and cracking.

Harry simply stood there and watched her. The other man had liked Judith, when he was in control; maybe that was why Harry was so determined she should suffer now it was his turn.

"Perhaps you should confess your sins to them. It's not as if you can exactly deny that you're a witch, can you? They might even show you mercy."

Judith closed her eyes, leaning back against the wall, all fight gone out of her.

"No, they won't. They don't want a true confession, anyway. My sins are nowhere as numerous as they think, either."

She reopened her eyes, some vestige of spite left within her.

"You, however, would no doubt drive all of them insane if you were to confess every dark deed you have ever committed."

Harry crossed the tiny cell and knelt before her, grasping her face in his hand. Judith tried to hold back a whimper of pain as his fingers pressed into fresh bruises.

"Perhaps. But I am not the one lying chained in the dark, am I?"

She met his eyes, as determined as she could manage.

"Why do you hate me so much? Why couldn't you just leave me be?"

"Ah, there are many, many reasons. Your helping my other self when he tried to be clean, for one. But mostly because I could never trust a witch. No-one can. And that's why you will always find yourself locked in a cell, in one form or another, while I am out there, draining the world dry."

He turned his grip into a caress, stroking the pale skin of her throat with his fingertips while his thumb brushed her mouth and Judith couldn't suppress a shudder. More tears escaped her eyes and flooded her cheeks, and this time there was no resistance left in her expression.

He kissed her forehead, as if in benediction, rising to his feet.

"I wish I could stay to see how this all turns out, but Edgar and I have to be moving on. So this is goodbye."

He watched, smiling in satisfaction as Judith shrank in on herself, all her defences crumbling.

She was broken when he left her.

* * *

**Coda: 1675**

It was different this time around, very different. Lord Harry was gone, and Hal had control of himself again, but... somehow it wasn't like it had been before. Maybe it was the age; Lord Harry had certainly enjoyed his trips to England since the Restoration had begun, what with the removal of all that Puritan restraint and the 'anything goes' attitude that had replaced it.

It had been difficult at first, as it always was, adjusting to the return of his conscience, the struggle to control the bloodlust, but then he'd fallen in with a troop of theatrical types and... well. Nothing surprised them and they'd managed to help him. They treated his condition as if it was something medical, something to be politely ignored, though they were quick to escort him to a quiet little locked room whenever he got... troublesome. And then he'd found he could control it, almost, with willing donors there when it all got too much. Sometimes members of the troop would let him drink from them, but usually they'd find someone who'd do anything for money, so long as their discretion could be relied upon.

One of them, a young prostitute named Eleanor, told him she was the essence of discretion, that she'd serviced a number of nobility in her time in the trade and had never breathed a word to anyone of their identity. Hal liked Nell; she was an honest girl, despite her occupation, cheerful and practical. She didn't bat an eyelid when the others told her what was required of her, though she told Hal she'd never met a vampire before and he was careful not to hurt her anymore than he had to. She'd offered him sex as well, but he'd turned her down, as politely as he could, not just because he was afraid of losing control, but because he couldn't forget that his mothers had been girls like this, once. Lord Harry had no such qualms about whoring, but Hal was uneasy. He knew his mothers had taken up their profession out of need, that without custom they would have starved, as would he himself as a child, and, like Nell, they had become accustomed to it. But still he couldn't shake the feeling of wrongness, though he had ensured Nell was well paid for the services she provided.

And so his life went on; the troop were delighted by his knowledge of plays and poetry from times before they were born and he made himself useful in exchange for their protection.

But then one day, when he was sitting in a tavern, proof-reading a new play one of the troop had written while he waited for them, he was interrupted by a woman sitting down opposite him, uninvited.

"No, thank you."

He didn't even look up; whores frequently used this tactic to drum up custom, and he was used to it, but he never took them up on their offers.

"You don't even know what I'm proposing yet," the woman said and Hal dropped the sheets he was reading, hands numb with shock as he recognised the voice. He only realised he'd leapt to his feet when he heard the wooden bench crash to the ground, staring at her in horror.

"Don't tell me you're not pleased to see me, Harry."

"Judith. You're-"

"Alive? Yes, no thanks to you. It took me _years_ to get rid of those scars."

Her hair had grown back, long and sleek and she looked much the same as she ever had, yet she was dressed in sober black. This time she stood out for her lack of colour and spirit, rather than because of them. Perhaps it was part of Judith's nature to be the opposite of what everyone else was.

Hal didn't know what to say.

"What? Not even a kiss hello? You gave me a kiss goodbye, remember?"

"Yes. I remember."

Judith stared at him, as if she could see straight through into his soul, or whatever it was he possessed now in place of a soul.

"You're not him. You're the nice one. Hal instead of Harry. That would explain why you're sitting here alone, anyway."

"Judith, I'm so s-"

"Don't you fucking _dare_ apologise to me."

Judith's fingers gripped the wooden table so hard they turned white.

"You had me arrested, tortured, _killed_. I had to let them _execute_ me so I could escape, did you know that?"

Hal shook his head; no words would come.

"They hanged me in the square, in front of a jeering crowd and I had to _let_ them. They didn't take off the irons until they cut me down; I half believed I would truly die it took them so long. And then I had to climb out of a pile of corpses and run away in the night like some kind of-"

Judith pulled a disgusted face as she searched for the right word.

"Like a criminal. As if I should be ashamed of what I am. And here you sit, bold as brass, among living people like you have any right to be here."

Hal opened his mouth to speak but Judith held up her hand, cutting him off.

"I don't know what's worse – that you're still running around scot free or that you're not really the man responsible. I was all ready to curse you or stake you, but it wouldn't be the same."

"Well, if that's what you want," Hal finally managed to get a word in. "Hang around another thirty-odd years and I'm sure he'll make an appearance."

He put his hands behind his back so she wouldn't see them shake at the very thought of being replaced by that man again. For all the effort he put into his current life, he knew it wouldn't last. Couldn't, and he was fooling himself if he thought it would.

"I know. That's why I don't need to curse you, Hal."

There was a very long moment of painful silence.

Hal knelt and gathered up the spilled papers, setting the bench right, as if there was a way he could set everything right.

"What are you doing here, Judith? Why come back?"

"My maker summoned me."

"And you had to attend? Even though he let you get killed?"

"He's a demon, Hal. He granted me my skills, but he never promised me protection. And yes, I had to attend. Even if I had gone to the New World – and trust me, I considered it – I would have had to come where I was summoned, without delay or question."

"And will you stay?"

"That depends. He has released me from his requirements for the time being, I am free to go where I will again. I have a fondness for England, but if there's a chance of someone calling in the Witch-takers again..."

Hal held up his hands, as if in surrender.

"Not me."

Judith's wrath seemed to drop a few notches.

"What are _you_ doing here? Hanging around with actors, slumming it with ordinary folk. Last time you were nice it was a very different set-up."

"Perhaps that's why it didn't last."

"Perhaps. You are... something different, aren't you? Unique, even."

Her close scrutiny made Hal uncomfortable. The only others who knew of his changing nature, the peculiar fits of conscience that caused him to become a completely different man, if only for a short while, were other vampires. When he had first undergone a change, they had assumed it was just a throwback to his humanity, something to be politely ignored when he reverted and returned to them. But now it had happened again, and Hal realised this was indeed something different.

"I wouldn't know. It's not something we vampires talk about."

"That doesn't surprise me."

Her anger fading further, Judith tilted her head, considering Hal.

"If you think I'm something to be feared and destroyed, I can only imagine what they make of you. Be careful, Hal. There'll be a day when you'll be the one they decide to get rid of, by any means necessary."

"I don't doubt it."

Hal thought of Wyndham. The old vampire had been reluctant to let Hal back into his circle of influence at first, suspicious of his motivations and doubting his reliability, his loyalty. Lord Harry had been quick to prove both of those and Hal wondered what would happen next time, knowing that when Lord Harry came back, he would want to rejoin the company of other vampires. What would Wyndham do then? Was if possible he would have Harry killed, and if so, would Hal be glad of that?

He knew that, now she had regained her abilities, Judith could very easily have killed him and if he was surprised that she had seemingly let him off lightly, he didn't show it.

As she'd said, in her cell, she wasn't like him, either of him. And that was something he would have to live with, whatever happened.

Judith had been watching him, silently.

"So what now? Do I let you go your way, trust you? Are people safe around you?"

"I don't know. So far, I've been able to manage my condition. And these people, my friends, they help me. But... I honestly don't know how long that will last."

"So if I walk away now, leaving you to your own devices, I must shoulder some responsibility for what you could do, knowing as I do what you're capable of."

"Responsibility? Why would you feel that way?"

"For not plunging a stake into your heart the moment I recognised you. For the complacency on my part that gave you the chance to murder my Samuel. And I'm sure your other victims would thank me if I had done."

"So why don't you?"

Hal met her dark eyes with a steadiness he did not feel. He was not ready to die, yet part of him knew he could not avoid it forever, and if there was any justice in the world, he would pay for his sins soon enough.

Judith stared back.

"I don't know. Sentiment, perhaps. Or maybe hope has yet to die within me as completely as I thought it had."

However that conversation may have continued, Hal would never get to find out, for his friends chose that moment to appear. A riotous bunch, they filled the tavern with colour and noise immediately, and Judith chose to slip out before they could catch her up in their joyfulness; it would seem twenty-seven years was not quite enough to recover from torture and execution, and Hal let her leave. He'd see her again, if she wanted him to. And maybe, hopefully, he would still be himself when that happened.

* * *

For the coda: I'm sure not everyone in the Restoration period was as colourful as books and TV make it seem, but I thought it would be fun to drop Hal in the midst of that and see what happened.

I'm sure Hal and Judith met again a number of times before the events of "Haunts Old And New", not just in 1865, but I'll leave those up to your imagination.


	10. Catherine, 1918

**Catherine, 1918.**

She'd heard that when you died, your life flashed before your eyes. It was half right.

Suspended in that half-state, feeling the spell, the power of the Devil pull at her, dragging her further and further from life, Catherine found a number of memories popping up. Some were relevant, some decidedly not but then what could you expect? She was dying in the arms of her mortal enemy, a vampire whose notoriety had spread as far as she, or any werewolf had ever travelled. And yet...

Not only was Lord Hal exactly what every mother warned her daughters about – the charmer, the seducer that would ruin you, albeit one who would probably kill you before you had a chance to worry about your reputation – but her own mother had been very particular in warming her about Hal. Catherine remembered the day her mother had shared the werewolf archives with her. She'd been what, seventeen? Not yet a wolf, she hadn't been home long, having endured the final term at that _insufferable_ convent boarding school, when her mother summoned her. Catherine knew what it would be about – she had received many such summons over the years, whenever Lady Caroline had wanted to lecture her about something or other, namely how disappointed she was that Catherine had yet again been in trouble with the nuns for climbing trees, sneaking out at night, talking to boys or some other tiny infraction that was treated as if she had committed murder.

But this time it wasn't about what she'd done, but what she had to do, namely begin her training as her mother's replacement, leading the werewolves of the future.

"Now you are fully grown-" Lady Caroline cast a disapproving eye over her daughter's appearance, carelessly dressed to the minimum standards. Catherine had made her feelings on formal clothing _very_ clear over the years and her mother had seemingly grown tired of having the same argument over and over. Yet she could still make Catherine feel as if she had not changed from the gawky child with the skinned knees and the knots in her hair who had been sent away to school.

"It is time to take on the responsibilities of your blood. You are my heir, and tonight, at full moon, you will be recognised as such."

"Tonight? So soon?" Catherine felt a stab of panic.

"I have already left it far longer than I should have. You should be grateful that I allowed you your childhood; others would have passed on the wolf long ago. I, however, decided it was best to let you mature first, so that you might better understand what I was gifting you."

Catherine knew better than to argue; she'd been raised with this weighing on her her whole life.

"All those loyal to me will be in attendance – don't pull faces like that, girl! This is of the utmost importance. You shall be quite safe, so long as you do as you are told, do you understand?"

"Yes, Mama."

"Hmm. It would be better if you address me as 'Lady Caroline' from now on. 'Mama' sounds far too informal. It's not as if they won't know you are my daughter; you wouldn't be inheriting from me if you weren't, everyone understands how these things work."

Catherine clutched her hands together behind her back, fighting to keep a straight face. How old-fashioned! When she inherited, there would be some much-needed updating; it was a new century, and the werewolves needed to realise that, to act accordingly. It was one of their advantages – the vampires tended to struggle to cope with a changing world, too stuck in the past, tied to tradition, especially the older ones.

"So, as part of your recognition," Lady Caroline was still talking, barely paying attention to her daughter. "I must share with you certain things that you need to know. Come with me."

Lady Caroline rose to her feet, stiff and awkward in her conservative, outdated clothes and Catherine noted how stout her Mama had become, especially when compared to her own athletic figure. Too many years working at a desk, with no involvement in the field; something else Catherine intended to avoid, when she took her mother's place.

Lady Caroline led Catherine to a locked side room filled with shelved books.

"Wolves have been gathering this information for centuries, and those who hold positions of leadership such as myself are responsible for maintaining and adding to it. You will have to familiarise yourself with its contents."

Catherine's eyes widened – this was an entire library. She'd only just left school, and now she had to start all over with studying?

"To begin with, you should know your enemy."

"I know the enemy. Vampires."

"That is not enough," Lady Caroline snapped. "We do not go looking for trouble. But there are those that do, and you need to be able to recognise them."

She took down a leather bound tome, one filled with thick, heavy papers, sown in individually. She tore out the first page she came to, crumpling it into a ball and tossing it away.

"Staked _him_ myself," she muttered, flipping through the pages then handing it to Catherine when she reached the page she wanted.

"Most of them are nothing. They are animals, incapable of thinking beyond their unnatural lusts and their obsession with feeding. They only concern us when they become organised, commit atrocities, or threaten us directly. Or if you should encounter any of these."

Catherine looked at the page.

"The Old Ones. Not the most imaginative title."

Lady Caroline pursed her lips.

"That's just as well. Imaginative vampires only mean trouble."

There were sketches accompanying the biography of each vampire; some were just a few lines, others covered several pages. The one of the little girl Catherine studied closely – could she really be over three hundred years old? She'd need to remember that, in future; just because someone didn't look threatening, it didn't mean they weren't.

She flipped the page over and... oh, what a pity. That such a handsome face should belong to a vampire. But then, that was to be expected, wasn't it? When wolves made a conscious choice to pass on the lycanthropic legacy, they tended to choose based on strength – not just physical but strength of spirit, those who would adapt the best and be of most use to the - Catherine had to make an effort not to use the word 'pack.' Her mother hated it, called it common; "Only animals have packs. We are a community. A family."

Vampires, however, tended to be shallower, often choosing based on appearance when recruiting, allowing impulses and lusts to lead them. Whoever had recruited this one had clearly had an eye for a pretty face.

Lady Caroline saw the sketch Catherine was studying and huffed.

"_That_ one... I cannot even _begin_ to..."

"You met him?"

Catherine watched as her mother's face flushed redder, growing flustered.

"I had the unfortunate... it was a long time ago. I was young and foolish... it is of no importance. Suffice it to say, this man cannot be trusted and if you should have the misfortune to encounter him, you should not believe a word that he says."

Catherine skim-read the notes accompanying the sketch with interest.

"He's very old... what's this about unexplained absences?"

"There are two schools of thought."

Lady Caroline seemed more uncomfortable than Catherine had ever seen her before.

"One of that he regularly travels far beyond anywhere we have connections. We don't know why."

"And the other?" Catherine found her curiosity was piqued. For there to be so much speculation about him, he had to be worthy of attention.

"That he is unique among vampires in that he regularly regains his conscience. Or something similar."

Catherine read on. Yes, there was mention of this – wolves who had encountered him at times when he appeared to be living separate from the others, causing no harm and behaving in a manner radically different from his recorded persona. Curious.

"He has a title? How would a vampire be granted anything like that?"

"We don't know."

Lady Caroline almost snatched the book from Catherine's hands.

"He most likely lied about it, or somehow charmed his way into favour with royalty in the past. You need to be on your guard if you should ever meet this man, Catherine. More so than the other Old Ones. He is extremely dangerous, in every possible way."

Her mother was completely sincere, earnest in a way she seldom was and Catherine didn't ignore that. If he frightened her Mama, a woman who intimidated every werewolf on the Continent...

"I'll remember, Mama. I mean, Lady Caroline."

"Hmm."

A rare smile crossed the older woman's face.

"Perhaps in private, you may continue to call me 'Mama.' You have a long way to go, child, but I am still proud to call you my daughter."

* * *

Back in the present, Lady Catherine felt as if the air was being sucked out from her lungs- she couldn't breathe and it was starting to go dark, though the torches still burned. Dimly, she could hear Hal calling her name, felt his hand on her face but she couldn't see him.

More memories flashed before her – the ceremony where the wolf her mother became had passed on lycanthropy to her, where she had witnessed for the first time the transformation in all its brutality, surrounded by the people who would later become her army in the war with the vampires. Her first transformation – she had been granted privacy for that, at least, allowed to remain at home rather than joining the others in roaming the estate or being locked up for the safety of the humans around. Her mother's death, and her inheritance of the family title and the responsibilities of werewolf leadership. The discovery in the reading of the will as to who her father had been, her frustration at never having been allowed to know him, that the taboo about werewolves breeding extended to forbidding families from staying together.

How Catherine had broken that when it came to the birth of her own daughter, Sophia, who was in the care of relatives, far away. Sophia's father hadn't been a wolf, though Catherine had told him everything about her situation, her responsibilities and if he hadn't been killed fighting in the human war last year, then he would have been the one to raise their daughter now. As it was, Sophia would have a choice, if she wanted to become part of the werewolf community or remain human. Although...

Catherine could feel her own death approaching, and if she wasn't there to lead the wolves, or to raise Sophia, it would all fall apart. Unless this spell worked – and Lord Hal's unsurprising refusal to play his part in the ritual had certainly cast doubt on _that_ - then the vampires would win and the world was lost. And even if it did work, and the war ended, then what would happen to her people? She had not trained a successor. Would they remain as a community, a family or would they scatter? Catherine had wanted to make changes, but the thought of werewolves with no leader, no organisation, roaming free but lost... it was almost as bad as the thought that she would never see Sophia again

She hoped they would stay together somehow. They had to; even if the war with the vampires ended now the Devil was bound, there would still be fighting. Lord Hal certainly wouldn't just give up; he enjoyed the chaos far too much, and he wasn't due to regain his conscience for decades. She'd lost any chance she might have had to convince him otherwise, to redeem him now. Yet he stayed with her, holding her and that surprised her. Despite their flirtation, she had not imagined his black heart could feel anything remotely resembling emotion. But he'd run to her side when she fell, no concern at all for the vampire who was dying as she was, the one whose blood he had used in his stead, and she could hear him pleading her to hold on, through the fog of her impending death. But it was too strong; she couldn't, not even for Sophia.

A sudden bright light dazzled her and Catherine realised she was no longer in her body, but was looking down at it, lying still in Hal's arms. There was a look of genuine shock on the vampire's face – he hadn't known this would happen, and he hadn't wanted it to. Perhaps there was a tiny glimmer of hope after all.

Catherine turned towards the source of the light – a door, newly appeared in the wall and there was a brilliant white light streaming from all around it, calling to her.

But she wasn't quite finished, not yet.

She leaned down, whispering in Hal's ear.

"I'll be watching you, Lord Hal. I warned my daughter about you, the same way my mother warned me. Be very careful."

He didn't seem to hear her. He couldn't see her, so she wasn't a ghost but something else instead.

"Time to go," Catherine murmured.

And she opened her door.

* * *

- Okay, so Lady Catherine isn't technically a victim of Hal's, but he got her involved in the ritual that killed her, so she counts. As to all the memories I gave her, there is a bit of 'shoehorning' stuff in, but I really liked the idea that werewolf leadership could be inherited through matrilineal descent.

As to the 'taboo' about werewolves breeding – Nina can't really have been the first werewolf to have a baby? So there had to be a reason why two werewolves together was so unusual (bearing in mind I don't see how anyone else would know Eve had been conceived when they were in wolf form unless George and Nina told them).

Also, there's no proper explanation given in the show as to how werewolves went from organised enough to have an army to no organisation at all, but it stands to reason everything would have fallen apart during/after a war between the vampires and the werewolves and any accumulated knowledge would also have been lost.

– I could follow this with a chapter for Sophia, Catherine's daughter, (I thought about making her a vampire), but I'm a bit uncomfortable with how much violence against women I've been writing recently, so instead I'll leave it open, with the assumption that she remains human and avoids becoming another of Hal's victims.

I do have a plan for the next chapter, which will probably be the last.


	11. Hal, 1514

So – the last chapter, which I've split into two. I always told myself I'd never do a recruitment scene for Hal but... here it is. The last (or rather, first) victim.

I also tried not to use the song "Human" by Daughter in fanfic because it's so beautiful, but it's also incredibly fitting. Words in italics are 'borrowed' lyrics.

* * *

** Hal, 1514.**

"_**Underneath the skin there's a human  
Buried deep within there's a human  
And despite everything I'm still human  
But I think I'm dying here"**_

* * *

"You don't want to die."

Hal wasn't sure if the voice he heard was real or not at first. He'd been lying there for possibly hours, drifting in and out of consciousness, surrounded by the dead and the dying. It was getting colder and he could barely feel his legs anymore. The pain was – well, it was still there, but it somehow didn't feel real, as if it was happening to someone else and he was just watching it.

Even since the lance had been shoved through him, he'd been waiting for death to show up and claim him, but instead he kept seeing people from his past, visions of long dead friends and, more disturbingly, his mothers. Some of them just stood there, some spoke to him and Hal found himself wishing death would hurry up, so he didn't have to see them anymore. Unless he was already dead, and this was Hell? That would make the man standing over him now, what, a demon? He knew he didn't warrant the attention of Old Nick himself. No matter what he may have done in his twenty-something years on this Earth, there were far worse, Hal knew that.

"I _said_," the voice grew louder, more insistent.

"You don't want to die."

Definitely real.

Hal didn't recognise the voice, nor the face accompanying it, as it came closer. A man, dressed in black, carrying a surgeon's kit rather than a weapon. He stood in front of Hal, staring at him in the same way the army recruiters had, sizing him up.

"No."

Hal surprised himself with his answer.

"But I think I may be beyond your skills."

He took his hands away from the bloody wound that virtually went through him. Hal had seen a lot of men die on the battlefield, had killed a number himself. He knew when it was hopeless; that was why the man who'd stabbed him hadn't bothered to stick around to wait for him to die, nor had he made any further effort to finish the job.

The surgeon's expression didn't change and there was something decidedly strange about the man. Most army surgeons Hal had encountered looked exhausted all the time, as if the job they did was draining the life out of them. This man looked almost bored.

"You're right, that is a fatal wound. If it makes you feel any better, the Muskovite who ran you through is probably dead too. I've been searching this part of the forest for hours and you're the first survivor to fit my criteria all day."

That made no sense.

"If it's fatal-"

Hal struggled to sit up but his muscles didn't seem to be getting the message.

"Then how am I a survivor?"

The man smiled and the look on his face was like nothing Hal had seen before. The closest he could come to was the leader of his battalion, a brutal, almost sadistic man who revelled in the fact his position allowed him to do as he pleased with the men assigned to him. He was a man Hal had made an effort not to cross, but why should he feel that way about a common barber-surgeon, a man little more than a bloodletter?

"Death isn't always the end."

Hal felt his hopes sink.

"Are you a priest as well as a doctor? Come to pray for my soul?"

The smile shifted and Hal was reminded of a wild animal he'd seen in the menagerie at the Tower of London, before he'd shipped off to sea. He couldn't remember what it was called, but it came from a very long way away, possessed sharp teeth and claws and it hunted and ate people. Even caged, pacing and powerless, young Hal could see it was a killer, and this man looked the same.

"Pray for your soul? Far from it, boy. Should you accept, then it will be in the hands of someone far older and more powerful than me. But your life..."

The man stepped right up to Hal, crouching down so their eyes were level.

"I can see you. The real you, the one you keep inside. You don't want to die in a forest miles from home, fighting for something you honestly couldn't give a shit about."

"Does anyone?"

The man took hold of Hal's chin in his hand, eyes boring into him.

"I have a gift, you see. A talent for seeing what people are on the inside. That's why they send me to so many godforsaken places like these. Find anyone worthy and bring them into the fold."

"I-"

Hal strained to understand but the man's fingers dug into his flesh, silencing him.

"Shh. I only want to hear one thing from you. How much do you want to live? I can grant you life eternal. What would you do for that chance?"

Hal wasn't afraid of death, but that didn't mean he was going to surrender to it. Whatever this strange man offered, what could be worse than dying here, his eyes pecked out by carrion before his body was unceremoniously tossed into a mass grave?

"Anything."

The man released his hold on Hal, the smile on his face turning to one of satisfaction.

"Of course you would."

He straightened up again, taking a step back.

"I'll share a secret with you, boy. This-"

The man indicated his garb, the surgeon's kit.

"Is not my calling, and since I took on this position I've saved only a handful of lives. I have no care for healing petty little humans who are of no significance; my purpose here is something quite different. Now get up."

Hal stared in utter incomprehension.

"I can't. I can barely move-"

"I said, get up."

"_I can't!"_

"Then you will die here."

The peculiar man crossed his arms, watching and waiting.

"It's your choice, boy. Get to your feet and live, or stay where you are and die."

Hal continued to stare.

"I don't believe you."

"Oh, I'll prove what I say. When you get up. Now hurry, boy. I don't have all day."

What choice was there? If he died trying or didn't try and died anyway, then he was still dead. If there was any chance the man could really save his life... And after all, pain and hardship were hardly strangers.

Hal gritted his teeth. He drew on every last shred of strength he had, getting his hands under him and pushing hard, trying to lift himself up. The pain that had seemingly drifted away returned with a vengeance, as if he was being stabbed all over again and he fought to win over it. Despite the cold, sweat started out on his forehead as he managed to lever himself up, using the log at his back to push against until he could get his numb feet under him, staggering upright.

The whole time, the other man simply stood and watched.

Hal clutched at his wound, feeling flesh tear as he moved, yet more blood spilling until his head spun, his vision blurring and darkening.

"Oh yes," the man hissed and his voice no longer sounded even remotely human. To Hal, he appeared to be in shadow and his eyes were darker, much darker.

"You'll do _very_ well. They'll be pleased with me when I bring them you."

"What? Who?"

Hal gasped, swaying on his feet. He fought against the pain, the blood loss but he couldn't hold on long and as he began to fall, the man caught him, seemingly effortlessly, hands grasping Hal by the shoulders and holding him.

The man's face was very close to Hal's own and it took a moment for him to realise that the strange, inhuman man had licked blood from the cut on Hal's cheek and was tasting it, the way a rich man might taste wine.

"Just a little," he whispered, his voice growing hoarse. "Just a sample. It won't be the same, after-"

Revolted, Hal tried to shove him away, but the other man was strong, unnaturally strong and, close-up, Hal could see his teeth were very sharp.

The man let go with one hand, raising his wrist to his mouth and tearing open his own skin, letting dark blood spill out as he pressed it against Hal's mouth.

"Drink, boy. Drink, and let it change you."

The metallic taste filled his mouth and Hal wanted to pull away, to spit it out but he couldn't. Not just because the other man was too strong to fight, while Hal was inches from death, but because he could feel that this was more then it seemed. Hal had seen some strange things in his life, but the idea that any man would be crazy enough to go stalking through battlefields to force dying men to drink his blood? No, this was dark magic. Hal could feel its power and despite everything, he wanted to be part of it.

With the last tiny fragments of his strength, Hal drank.

* * *

_**Woken up like an animal  
Teeth ready for sinking  
My mind's lost in bleak vision  
I tried to escape but keep sinking  
**_

_**Take me out of this place I'm in  
Break me out of this shallow case I'm in**_

* * *

Hal awoke.

For a moment, there was nothing. He was aware, but he could see nothing, hear nothing and it was as if he no longer had a body.

Then the pain knifed through him, jolting him upright with a ragged gasp, drawing air into lungs that no longer needed it.

He was still in the forest, surrounded by the dead, covered in blood but no longer dying. The pain faded to background noise, the way it did after a beating and within minutes, he could ignore it completely. Hal got to his feet, drawing the material of his shirt away from the lance wound. Dried blood covered the skin on his abdomen, but the wound had gone, healed completely, as if it had never been there, hadn't killed him. _**  
**_He turned, looking for the surgeon, wanting him to explain, but there was no-one but the dead.

What was this he was feeling? Hal couldn't explain. Now the pain was fading, he tried to figure out what was wrong, what the other man had done to him. He was healed, yes, but he wasn't... himself. He was thirsty, that was the strongest, but it didn't feel right. He grabbed up a waterskin from where it had been dropped, drained it and that didn't even touch his thirst. It was more than thirst – it was hunger too, but not like he'd even known, and he'd known hunger a lot in his life.

What now?

He looked around again; maybe he could remember his way out of the forest, back to camp. By the utter silence of his surroundings, the battle was either long over or had moved on and Hal found he didn't care in the slightest how it had gone.

So he walked.

Eventually the silence was broken by a regular thumping noise that got louder and louder as he got closer; a familiar noise, but one he couldn't quite place. And then he saw the three men, pushing a cart and loading the dead onto it and he realised what he could hear, over all the noise they were making, was the beating of their hearts.

And that was when he realised his own no longer seemed to be beating.

He was alive, that much he was sure of – he could see, hear, feel and think, so he couldn't be dead and as he got closer, something else woke up within him, something old and terrible and very, very powerful.

The men looked up from their work as he approached, and their faces registered utter terror.

* * *

Hal didn't remember what happened next too clearly. Instinct had taken over, fuelled by that terrible hunger. He knew he had killed the men, and that had, for the moment, satisfied his hunger, but he'd done more than kill them, hadn't he?

He remembered the taste of their blood, and it was different to that of the surgeon who'd... healed him. It was hotter, fuller; he could taste the life in it, taste their fear. The blood from the other man had been curiously flat.

He needed to find that man. He needed to know what he was now.

He walked back to the camp, where camp followers were packing. Other survivors were being patched up and as Hal searched for a familiar face, any familiar face, he realised that, while he could still hear the sound of their heartbeats, his bloodlust had momentarily subsided.

The women of the camp barely spared Hal a glance as he passed – even blood-soaked and strange, he didn't stand out, not in the aftermath of battle.

"Did we win?" he called out.

The woman – she was old and grey and he'd never seen her before – shrugged, continuing to fold and roll up sheets before placing them into a wooden chest.

"Hal!"

He turned at the sound of his name, finally seeing someone he knew.

"John. You made it too, then."

"Just about."

The boy gave a rueful grin, indicating his bandaged arm, the crutch he leant on heavily.

"How about you? You look like you gave as good as you got."

"I did. The surgeon in the field - patched me up, but I need to see him. Is he around?"

John indicated the last tents standing.

"If he's here, he'll be in there."

"Thank you."

After a few attempts, Hal found his man.

There were a number of wounded lying in the tent, and the surgeon was directing his assistants in the same bored, disinterested fashion. None of the men looked like they would live long, yet the surgeon was not asking them to climb to their feet in order to be saved.

The surgeon turned from washing his bloodstained hands and caught sight of Hal standing in the doorway.

"You made it back, then. Good. I would have been disappointed if you hadn't."

The assistants gave Hal a curious look, but they didn't have the time to spare on those who could walk into the tent by themselves, too busy with helping the dying on their way and silencing the screams of the badly wounded.

"You owe me some answers."

"You think I owe you something, boy?"

The surgeon's eye raised.

"I rather think it the other way around."

"But-"

"Walk with me."

The surgeon grabbed Hal's arm, steering him out of the tent.

"Let me make something clear. I saved you, but that doesn't mean I have adopted you, or that I care a whit for you. When the time is right, I will take you to those who instructed me to recruit, and they will give you your answers. Or perhaps they will not. You'll learn over time."

"But what did you do? What am I?"

"Oh, we have a lot of names. But I believe the consensus is 'vampire'."

Hal stared at him. Then he began to laugh.

"A vampire? There's no such thing."

"Oh, really? Well, tell me your explanation, if you know everything."

The surgeon stopped under a tree on the edge of the camp and his expression was no longer bored. Hal felt – no, not fear. He wasn't afraid. But this was all so very strange and unnatural, and this man was the only link he had.

"I didn't say-"

"Listen to me. You are a child. I know you think you have seen everything, and know all there is to know, but compared to myself and others like me, you are a blind fool who might as well have just stopped sucking at your mother's teat."

Hal stared back at him. He didn't apologise, but he said nothing else.

"Forget everything you have ever heard about vampires because it is no doubt wrong. The most important lesson you've already learned, by the look of you. Who did you feed on?"

Hal thought back over what he had done since awakening.

"There were some men in the woods... gravediggers, I think."

There was the faintest glimmer of a change of expression on the surgeon's face; Hal had impressed him.

"More than one?"

"Just three. I've killed a lot more men than that."

"I'm sure you have. But this wasn't like your soldiering, was it boy? This was pure instinct."

Hal nodded, more of his memory returning. They'd been too afraid to run, and they'd barely put up a fight, but it had still been easier than it should have been. He remembered his teeth growing long and sharp, his already hard muscles filling with a new strength. And more than that... he'd enjoyed it. It had felt _right_.

"It's the blood. You need it now – you don't need anything else."

"You said eternal life. Did you mean that?"

"Oh yes. I myself have been alive for a very long time, and I'm nowhere near the oldest. There are those of us who have seen thousands of years pass them by. As for you... who knows? Maybe you'll get lucky."

"And what do you want from me in return? You must want something – people don't just go around gifting eternal life."

"They don't?"

Again, the dangerous note was back in the surgeon's voice.

"What did I tell you about thinking you know everything?"

Hal opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off.

"Besides, I am not a person, and neither are you, anymore. And I grow tired of this. I will be leaving soon. Find something to occupy yourself until such time."

Hal looked around at the remains of the camp, hastily dismantled and packed up so it could continue, following the army as it pursued the enemy.

"Should I stay with the army?"

"If it pleases you. I have work to do, and I do not mean patching up survivors. You may find yourself with a few companions, if all goes well. But, and I warn you with the utmost seriousness -"

The surgeon once more reached out and took hold of Hal's face with his hand.

"Do not get yourself killed. I have not made this effort of recruiting you just for you to waste it by running into any more big wooden stakes."

"Eternal life comes with limits, then?"

"Oh yes. There are a few things that can still kill us. Cross me, and I will show you _exactly_ what they are."

And then the surgeon went back to the tent, leaving Hal standing there, with no idea what to do next.

He was alive – in a fashion – and he would not pass up that opportunity. Perhaps he would do as the surgeon said, for now, until he had learned all he needed. But the hunger was still there, within him, and it was not satisfied. It would take such a lot to satisfy this hunger. Perhaps the whole world. And it waited for him.

* * *

This is part one – the next chapter will hopefully bring this fic to a satisfying conclusion.

- Just to point out, the Menagerie in the Tower of London wasn't actually open to the public until later in the 16th Century, so Hal couldn't have seen it when he was human, but, you know, poetic licence.

Also, my research on the Battle of Orsha was pretty much limited to Wikipedia, so there are probably mistakes and inaccuracies.


	12. Hal, 2013

Thank you to everyone who made it this far and thanks for all the lovely reviews!

So... this started off as a one-shot, inspired by the song "Human" by Daughter (again, lyrics in italics), then I decided to adjust it for the last chapter to this fic instead. Hope you like.

* * *

_**Waking up like an animal  
I'm all ready for healing  
My mind's lost with nightmares streaming  
Waking up (kicking screaming)**_

**_Take me out of this place I'm in_**  
**_Break me out of this shallow case I'm in_**

_**Underneath the skin there's a human  
Buried deep within there's a human  
And despite everything I'm still human  
But I think I'm dying here**_

* * *

**Hal, 2013**

Hal awoke with a start, a long-repressed scream rising to his lips. He caught it before it could escape, something he had a lot of practice at.

He didn't often dream of that particular part of his past – his recruitment, his first death. There were, after all, far worse things to remember. But he knew why it troubled him so much; it was the choice. He'd been offered the choice of becoming who – what – he was and he'd taken it. Compare that to his friends, who didn't want to be what they were, would give anything to be human again and he had _chosen_ this. It wasn't just about denying death. The man he had been had chosen to reject humanity and embrace the monster. True, his recruiter hadn't explicitly said what he was offering, but if Hal had known what was in store for him, would he have chosen differently? Probably not – he would never have chosen death, wasn't interested in redemption or salvation.

As for his recruiter, that man hadn't seemed to be interested in anything at all and he remained a total stranger to Hal. He'd departed as soon as he deposited Hal with the other vampires, the ones who had tasked him with scoping the battlefields for suitable converts, and the whole time they had journeyed together, they barely exchanged a word. Hal never saw him again, didn't even know his name, let alone if he lived still, or if he himself had other vampire 'siblings' out there in the world. Which he probably did, not that it mattered

He hadn't stayed long with that first group either, choosing to move on and find his own way as soon as his questions were answered. He'd been sick of being told what to do, wanted to explore his new life himself, test his limits and he'd certainly done that.

As to the dream... he knew what had triggered it. He'd been having more and more bad dreams recently – hangovers from his relapse, perhaps – but as to this particular dream, well.

The previous night, before he'd gone to bed, he'd walked in on Alex playing music in the living room. He'd not heard that particular song before but it had instantly caught his attention – a haunting song, a beautiful voice and lyrics that, when he thought about them, struck a chord deep within him. But it hadn't been until later that he'd thought about it, too distracted by the sight of Alex dancing to the music, eyes closed, arms raised. She hadn't known he was there, and he hadn't wanted to interrupt, to break the spell, but, though he felt guilty at intruding on what was clearly a private moment for Alex, he couldn't stop watching her.

Perhaps that was another reason why it had stayed in his head – whenever he thought of the song, he thought of her.

But... it was as if the song had been written for him. His life, how he felt:

_**Underneath the skin there's a human  
Buried deep within there's a human  
And despite everything I'm still human**_

Or, more accurately, the hope that had not yet died inside that he was still human, could be something other than the monster he had been for centuries.

He tried to push that away, not to dwell on it. But the image of Alex dancing, not seeing him, stayed and therefore so did the song. So he remained in his room, tried to forget by losing himself in a book.

* * *

Halfway through the morning, by which time he was feeling calmer, more in control again, there was a tentative knock at the door, and Hal was surprised to look up and see Alex there. Not surprised that she was there, but that she'd knocked instead of just barging in as was her habit, and that it had been tentative. Alex was rarely hesitant in anything, but her demeanour radiated discomfort, uncertainty, and she was holding something behind her back, concealing it.

"Hi. You busy?"

Hal put down the book, getting to his feet.

"What is it? Is something wrong?"

"No, I-"

Alex shifted her weight from foot to foot, not quite meeting his eyes.

"Everything's fine. I just needed – there's something I should tell you."

"Yes?"

Hal raised his eyebrows, waiting.

"What is it? Did you delete the radio presets again?"

"No, no, nothing like that. I – look, when we were at the archives, I found something."

Alex brought out a blue box folder from behind her back. Hal recognised the type as those used by Mr Rook and his grey-suited compatriots.

"What's that?"

"It's you."

She held the box out to him, and Hal could see it was full to bursting point, with many different folders inside, barely held together and on the front were his names, all of them.

Now it was him that was uncertain.

"I didn't go looking for this, I promise and I swear I haven't read it, but once I saw it on Rook's desk-"

Alex was babbling, nervous in her confession.

"I just thought you should have it. I mean, the archives are being shut up and I don't know what'll happen to it all, but it belongs to you, really, doesn't it?"

Hal took it from her, not entirely sure what he was feeling. He didn't believe in foreseeing, but for this to happen the day he had dreamed of his beginning was surely no coincidence?

"For God's sake, say something, will you?"

He looked up at Alex, whose frustration was pushing through her discomfort.

"Did I do right? Or should I have left it there?"

"No, I-" Hal didn't know what to say, taking refuge in long-learned manners.

"Thank you. It was thoughtful of you."

"Oh come on, Hal." Alex rolled her eyes.

"This isn't a rubbish birthday present from your aunty!"

"No, it's my life."

Hal was very serious.

"And his. The other man. Everything I've ever done – he's ever done – written down. I don't know if I want to be faced with that."

"Then don't. I don't know what's in there, how much of it's right, even, but it should be yours, not theirs, right?"

"Right."

Hal attempted a reassuring smile, the falseness of which Alex could see immediately.

"Look, if you want I can take it out back and burn it. Would that help?"

Alex reached for the folder, but Hal snapped it close to his chest, holding onto it with both hands.

"Didn't think so. Are you gonna read it?"

"Perhaps."

"Right. Well, I'll leave you to it, shall I?"

And she vanished, Rentaghosting abruptly out of the room.

* * *

Hal sat down, holding the folder in front of him. There was a printed label on the front, covering over several old labels and it read:

**_Type Two_**

**_Name: (Lord) Henry Yorke aka 'Harry' aka 'Hal'._**

**_Category A1: Extremely Dangerous._**

Strange to be confronted with it like that; written down in black and white. Of course he knew that his reputation would have survived his 'time off' with Leo and Pearl, that he hadn't been forgotten about, but nonetheless, it was very peculiar.

He still found the very notion of the Department of Domestic Defence ludicrous, more so that they found time to make up categories for creatures like himself, let alone sit down and write reports. But he found he was curious, and he opened the folder.

Tucked inside was a loose page, an internal memo in Mr Rook's neat handwriting that said:

"_Following the information given by the Type Two known as 'Hetty' aka 'Henrietta' aka 'The Little Girl', I have to conclude that the other remaining Old One she refers to as 'Hal' is the same Type Two this department have been collecting records on for centuries as Henry Yorke. Please make sure all accounts are updated and cross-referenced accordingly."_

Stapled to it was a transcript of the interview between Mr Rook and Hetty, which Hal skim-read.

"Well. That explains how he knew who I was. And I might have guessed she'd sell me out, the little _minx_."

His relationship with Hetty had always been an odd one; she found the cyclical nature of his personality, the way he swung from good to bad, completely hilarious, having never had so much as a twinge of remorse in her life. He wondered where she was now; the interview didn't mention how she had escaped the explosion that had killed the other Old Ones, though he wasn't at all surprised that she had.

He put the transcript to one side and turned his attention to the folder contents proper. The smaller folders within appeared to be original copies of reports on him, dating back centuries, with typed up versions attached. Some were just accounts of vampire attacks with hand-written labels on which said things like "probable sighting" and "strong anecdotal evidence but confirmation unlikely."

And then there were the ones that had no such hesitancy. Some were 'events' attributed to all the Old Ones – such as the village sacrificed to them in 1779 as 'tribute' – that he'd had no part in, but that didn't matter. What did matter were the ones he had, especially those that had been him alone, such as killing Sylvie and the staff of the house they'd shared in 1792.

That would have been easy to trace back to him; he'd lived there with her for years and when his body was not found among the others, his culpability would have been clear, though he had not returned to England for decades after.

Others, such as the house he and Fergus had decimated while 'home on leave' in 1855, he was surprised to see, although when he thought about it, it would have been clear to anyone who knew about vampires what had happened. Perhaps he had been seen, or one of the others had talked, as Hetty had. Hal wondered what the cover story given out by that version of the DoDD had been, and then he began to speculate whether anyone else he knew had files. Cutler would probably have been too careful to gain the attention of such a group, although no doubt plenty of his previous associates had not. Would Flora have a file? Unlikely. She had spent most of her vampire life in Europe, and besides, most of her activities had taken place in the shadow of Edgar Wyndham, who no doubt had had a file to rival Hal's own, up until his death – Annie had been rather upset to discover Hal had known Wyndham, when she'd recounted that story to him.

How angry Wyndham must have been, to be killed by a ghost and a pair of werewolves in some little seaside B 'n' B, after a millennium of carnage across the world.

* * *

Hal read on, for hours, switching between the printed transcripts and the original records when the transcribers failed to make sense of the old handwriting, something Hal had no problems with. Some of the reports were hugely incorrect, or had been cobbled together from hysterical eyewitness accounts, people who had not truly believed what they were seeing, almost laughable in their imprecision. Then there was the annotated sketch that stated it had been taken from Lady Catherine's archive of vampires, the one she had inherited along with the leadership of the werewolves. How had it ended up here?

Hal read through the notes added by her mother, Lady Caroline, and laughed out loud. She certainly hadn't held back.

To this the DoDD had added a note questioning the existence of his two 'sides'; the writer didn't understand it, simply noting that Hal was not the same man in every encounter, and that this shouldn't be trusted or relied upon. That was probably the most insightful entry he found, though some of the others he found as he read on were so accurate they made difficult reading, and it wasn't just limited to what had happened in Britain either. Somehow, this department had collated reports from all over, though they were thinner, less detailed. But still, there they were. The people he'd killed, the damage he'd done...

Hal couldn't see himself in a mirror, but this was perhaps the closest he could come; the imprint he'd made on the world, how others saw him and how he would be remembered, if he could not succeed in suppressing his dark half.

Eventually, he reached the end, and he realised the worst thing about the file was not what it contained but what was missing. The people he'd murdered who were not remembered, the transgressions he'd committed that had either gone unrecorded or where his involvement had never been discovered, regardless of how people like Mr Rook swept them under the carpet, ostensibly to protect the human race.

Lady Mary was one of them. The massacre at her home had gone down in history as a non-specific, inexplicable 'tragedy.' Of course Lady Catherine could be one as well – no doubt she had had a file at one point, for her part in the vampire/werewolf war.

The girl he'd been gifted – where was it... Romania, Hungary, something like that – and had kept locked up in a dungeon so he could keep feeding on her, for months.

He remembered taunting her as he visited, about how wonderful it was that every time he took her blood, her body just kept providing more and more, a never-ending, self-replenishing food supply that only ran dry when he decided to kill her, after he'd driven her insane.

Nadia, that was her name. Kirby had known who she was, claimed to have met her in Purgatory. Was that true? Were all his victims waiting for him after his death? There would be so many of them...

But whether or not that was the case, it wasn't right, the gaps in the file. It may not have been intended to be a biography and Hal had no desire to create anything like that, but it bothered him, the absences nagging at his conscience. That needed to be corrected.

He rose to his feet, crossing over to the desk where he found pen and paper. Seating himself at the desk, he closed his eyes for a moment, composing himself. And then he began to write.

* * *

It was dark when Alex came back, and Hal was still writing.

"What are you doing?"

Hal jumped, startled. He hadn't noticed her appear in the room.

"Jesus, Alex. Don't do that!"

"Thought you'd be used to it by now. It's one of the little perks of being a ghost that I have no intention of giving up."

"It's rude," Hal admonished, pulling a blank sheet of paper over his neatly stacked handwritten accounts.

"No shit, Sherlock. So what are you doing? Did you read that file?"

Alex picked it up from where Hal had laid it on the bed. Hal got up, but he didn't take it from her.

"Yes. Yes, I did."

"And?"

"And what?"

They looked at each other carefully. Alex recognised that Hal was wearing the expression he always had when he didn't want to talk about something – he referred to it as his 'mask', and Alex wondered if he knew how obvious it could be sometimes.

"And what did you think? I mean, my file was a sheet of A4 and a couple of newspaper clippings. Yours looks like an eighth Harry Potter book."

"Yes, well, you don't get to be 500 years old without creating a few anecdotes."

Hal tried to keep his tone light, to cover all his underlying emotions with a smile.

"And I'm sure your file would be more substantial now, if the Department wasn't being shut down. Your being a Type One, I mean."

Alex sighed.

"Alright, what I'm really asking, I suppose, is why Rook would ask you to help him out if he had a file like this on you. If he knew what you could be like, what you'd done. When you're not 'you', I mean."

"I think that's precisely the point. He had information from – from another vampire about me. He knows I'm not the man that's in there."

Hal indicated the file.

"But that doesn't mean he has the right idea about me. He called me 'a human sympathiser with an eminent position in vampire society'. Which is not exactly the case."

"Is that why you turned him down?"

"No."

Hal looked down at the stack of sheets he'd written.

"No, there are a lot of reasons why I'd never agree to what Mr Rook wanted of me. Him not getting the measure of me is not one of them."

There was an awkward pause, as both of them looked at the file in Alex's hands.

"Do you want to read it?" Hal asked and Alex saw the mask slip off and vanish. She hadn't expected him to offer that much of himself.

"Um, no. Not really. Don't get me wrong, I was tempted. But there's probably a lot in here that I wouldn't want to know about you, isn't there?"

Hal nodded.

"I think – I think if I was going to find out that much about you," Alex continued, uneasy again.

"I'd want you to tell me yourself. Not read about it in a file kept by some super-secret organisation that only exists to cover up supernatural murders."

Hal looked hugely relieved.

"Quite right."

"So, what's that?"

Alex nodded towards the papers that Hal's hand rested on. He followed her gaze, tapping his fingers as he decided on his answer.

"I was – filling in some of the gaps. Some of the things from my past that weren't included and I felt should have been."

"Such as?"

"Such as what happened to Lady Mary. What I did to Lady Mary."

"That's not in here?"

"No. Many of my past transgressions have never been recorded, or attributed to me. I was attempting to rectify that."

Alex stared at him.

"Why?"

"Why? Because it's important to me."

"No, I mean why write it down? Are you going to let anyone else read this? Beyond us, I mean."

"I don't know. But-"

Hal took the file from Alex, opening it and slotting his own records inside, setting it down on the desk.

"Maybe it should go back to the archives. Be stored somewhere. And if so, it should be complete. Or at least, as complete as I'm comfortable with."

Alex couldn't comprehend what he meant.

"Why would you want this to go back to the archives? If I was you, I'd want to set it on fire."

"Because ashamed as I am of what's in there," Hal replied, his voice starting to crack with suppressed emotion. "It's who I am. And who I was. Who I never want to be again. And it's important to me that I'm honest about that, no matter who reads it, or doesn't. I can't run away from my past."

"Oh."

Alex didn't know what to say.

"So this is... confession."

"Of a sort. And if I ever do... revert. Maybe this will be a warning."

"That's not going to happen."

Alex's tone turned brisk, as if they were talking about the possibility of a day trip being spoiled by rain.

"Tom and I won't let it. You know that."

"Yes I do. And you have no idea how thankful I am that you feel that way."

"Right. Well. If that's sorted..."

Alex eyed the folder on the desk uncomfortably, then decided the easiest thing to do was pretend it didn't exist.

"Tea?"

"Please."

Hal closed the folder with an air of finality, and they left the room, the air of tension dissipating.

For now.

**END**

* * *

So, I could have written more, but I decided to end it here. Hope you liked, reviews always appreciated!

BTW, Does Hal have a desk in his room? I couldn't remember and much as I'd like to go through all the episodes again I haven't really got time ;)


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